


The Music of the Knight

by cornelia_h



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M, Mystery, Puberty, Reunions, Secret Identity, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornelia_h/pseuds/cornelia_h
Summary: After Dick Grayson’s famous trapeze artist parents plummeted to their death, Madame Cassandra Cain took him in as a ballet boy at the Gotham Opera House. Six years later, Dick became an overnight success when he stood in last-minute as the lead tenor in an opera. There was imminent danger in the opera house, however, and Dick also became increasingly torn between Bruce Wayne, his childhood crush, and the Bat, the mysterious vigilante and his voice mentor.A Phantom of the Opera AU.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Dinah Lance/Oliver Queen, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 75
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched the musical earlier this year via online streaming and suddenly realized how fitting the story was for Brudick…with a twist, of course! Many thanks to dear DayZero00 for listening to my babbling and being my beta again <3

Dick Grayson rolled up the black tights along his thighs and stood up to straighten the fabric. Even in the dressing room, he could still hear from the stage the voice of Jean-Paul Valley, the lead tenor of the Gotham Opera House, soaring above the melodramatic strings. Excited chatter filled the room as fellow dancers discussed the dress rehearsal that would lead to tonight’s grand event: the fall season’s opening and the premiere of a new production of _Orpheus and Eurydice_.

Dick did a sauté as he tucked the hem of his long-sleeved red silk shirt into the waistband in midair. When he landed, Valley hit a high note with such brute force that Dick couldn't help but grimaced.

“You’d think that the _primo uomo_ of Gotham Opera should sound much better than that,” murmured Tim Drake as he pressed his nose to the mirror, adding more balm to set his floppy hair in place. “His vibrato sounds like an angry goat.”

Dick chuckled at the younger boy’s comment. “He could certainly use some more head voice for the upper range, especially for those few measures of the aria.”

Tim turned to look at him: “You seem surprisingly knowledgeable about this opera.”

“Well,” shrugged Dick, sitting down to put on his canvas slippers, “we’ve been rehearsing this long enough for me to pick up a comment or two from the conductor.”

“If only Valley were the listening type,” Tim huffed, still trying to guide his hair in one direction.

Dick smiled: “It’s not easy for a star like him.”

“Maybe he won’t stay a star for very long.” Tim gave him a meaningful look that forced him to ask: “What do you mean?”

“With all the talks going around in the past couple of months, I suspect there may be big changes coming up,” said Tim, finally happy with his hair as he stood up to wipe clean his hands with a wet towel and adjust his shirtsleeves. “People already say Gotham Opera is going to change hands soon, right? I’ve also heard someone else singing this opera in the middle of the night. Someone much better. Maybe the management is also thinking about replacing Valley. Or,” he paused before speaking in a dramatically hush tone, “maybe it’s the _Phantom_ again.”

Dick tried to remain calm despite his pounding heart. _Someone much better!_ He exulted inside at the compliment, almost vexed that he couldn't openly claim it, for he had vowed of secrecy to his mentor. He simply shook his head to dismiss his best friend’s fanciful theories: “Valley is too big a box office draw for management to consider replacing him. And the Phantom is just a myth.”

Tim opened his mouth, about to say something else, but Madame Cassandra Cain, the ballet mistress, swung open the door and stepped into the men’s dressing room without a knock. Her dark hair was tightly upswept without a single strand of silver, and her perennial high-necked black satin dress contoured her lean ballet dancer’s body in a way that commanded authority while obscuring her age. The hubbub of the room quickly faded into silence as she spoke up: “Boys. Stage right, now.”

Dick mouthed “later” at Tim as they hurried to the stage entrance and lined up with the girls. They were about to open Act Two, where the Furies of the Underworld would refuse to admit Orpheus, who had just arrived in hope to bring his dead lover Eurydice back to life. As stagehands pushed the last pieces of the rocky landscape to the designated locations on stage, the conductor nodded for the dancers to enter.

The Furies kept teasing and interrupting the pleading Orpheus, as Dick and his fellow dancers chased, poked, and leaped around Valley—dressed with a white linen chiton and a blue wool himation—in a swarm of sinister red and black. Orpheus continued to beg for pity, and Dick had to admit that there was a certain appeal to the rawness of sorrow with which Valley approached the aria. Eventually, the sweet song of Orpheus managed to soften even the Furies, who gradually scattered and retreated to the sides.

Clap, clap, clap. The moment the music ended, Dick saw a short man in a top hat and black frock coat slowly applauding in front of the first row of the audience, his round belly bouncing with the motion as if about to pop out of his yellow waistcoat. The man’s thin lips stretched into a leer under his unusually long nose as he whispered to Mr. Lefevre, the current theater owner, who cleared his throat before addressing loudly to the stage: “Everyone, may I have your attention please?”

As performers and staff alike gathered closer to the edge of the stage, the old mustached man rubbed his hands and continued, “As you know, there have been rumors about my imminent retirement. I understand that now is a tricky time to tell you that the rumors are true, but I hope we’ll all treat tonight as much as a farewell as a brand-new beginning. It’s my pleasure to introduce to all of you this gentleman who now owns the Gotham Opera House, Mr. Oswald Cobblepot.”

“Cobblepot?” muttered Tim under the round of polite applause, “How come he’s our new owner, of all people?”

“I hear he’s very rich,” said another dancer as a few girls giggled next to him.

“The filthy kind,” Dick added quietly with closed lips.

“—Mr. Cobblepot is one of the most respected businessmen in Gotham and a passionate supporter of the arts, and I’m confident that you’ll all—”

“Very well,” said Cobblepot as he raised one hand to shut off Mr. Lefevre and twirled his umbrella with the other, squaring his shoulders as if attempting to make himself look taller but only managing to make his belly wobble. “It is a rare opportunity to be taking over an institution with such an…illustrious history. The opera has always been the epitome of Gotham’s social life, and it pleases me immensely to think that it now belongs to no one else but a _Cobblepot_.” He spoke with a distinct twang, emphasizing the last word. “Rest assured, I will watch over your little ivory tower like a magpie guards its treasure. And I am humbled to announce that I will not be alone in my efforts to preserve your great tradition. I would like to also introduce our new leading patron, Mr. Bruce Wayne.”

The crowd gasped and Dick’s heart fluttered. He quickly turned his head to the right to follow Cobblepot’s gaze. Dick didn't even notice that someone had been sitting at the end of the third row until the man stood up now, nodding lightly in acknowledgement. Bruce Wayne had remained the talk of the town ever since he came back to Gotham a year ago. Every month, in addition to regular gossips about the socialite of late who had caught his attention, the papers continued to discover new unsavory details about the wayward son’s extended world travel, from a secret affair with a Kasnian princess that ended in tragedy, to a wild night with Bolshoi’s danseuses _and_ danseurs. The prodigal had returned, they proclaimed, would the he finally live up to his late parents’ legacy, or would he forever become a disgrace to the Wayne family name?

Quite unlike the dissolute rake that the papers often portrayed him as, Bruce looked politely reserved with a faint curl of lips, and Dick felt a wave of reassurance and relief wash over him at the observation. Bruce’s well-fitted three-piece lounge suit was sternly black, and the tips of his stiff high collar were pressed down into wings that framed his elegantly chiseled features.

“My parents used to frequent the opera and this institution was very dear to their hearts,” the still-familiar voice said. “Now that I’ve returned to Gotham, I intend to honor their memory by continuing to support the meaningful work that you do here.” Bruce picked up his top hat from the seat next to him, its fine black silk gleaming from the stage light. “I regret not being able to stay for the rest of the rehearsal, as I must leave for another engagement, but I very much look forward to attending the performance tonight.” He smiled as he scanned the crowd, and Dick thought it was perhaps an illusion that their eyes locked for a few seconds.

Feeling heat crawling onto his cheeks, Dick diverted his gaze from the man, who had now disappeared into one of the side exits. “First the Gentleman of Crime, and then the Prodigal Son of Gotham. This is going to be interesting for all of us,” said Tim as people around them murmured in curiosity while still staring in the direction the famous heir had gone. “I’ve read somewhere that Wayne’s parents were killed on their way home from the opera, and yet he is still planning to write us more checks. Can you believe that?”

“He must have a big heart,” Dick responded casually, holding back his urge to confess: _And I was already in love with him six years ago…_


	2. Chapter 2

_Six years ago_

Dick’s entire world collapsed when his parents plummeted to their death in front of him. It must be a dream, he thought dizzily, a nightmare after having read too many crime and mystery novels late at night, for how could the Flying Graysons, the best trapeze artists in the country and crown jewels of Haly’s Circus, have possibly blundered mid-show? But the blood pooling on the ground looked so glaringly realistic, and his nails digging into his clenched fists hurt too much to not have waken him up. Head spinning and ears ringing, Dick felt his legs give way as he fell to his knees, and all of a sudden it was too hard to breathe and too difficult to see with all the tears blurring his vision.

Nobody approached him, too caught up in the chaos or perhaps too afraid of breaking him with even a touch. “The boy’s only thirteen…” he heard somebody said. The remark used to bring him pride, when he performed the most difficult swings and somersaults alongside his parents. _The Boy Wonder!_ Said the circus posters. _My little bird_ , said his mother lovingly. “…What is he going to do?” These words now burned like acid, hollowing him from inside out. “Poor child…to be an orphan…” Dick covered his ears and curled up on the ground. He didn't need more confirmation of what had happened, nor did he need sympathy. It was probably best that he be left alone like this, his blood cold and body shivering, until he could pass out and perhaps, if he was lucky, finally join his parents.

He didn’t stay alone for long. A broad, warm hand brushed against his shoulder, tentatively, before finally landing. “Are you alright?” asked the soft baritone. It wasn’t condescending, or pitying, just soothing. Dick turned around to face the source of the voice, squinting against the bright ceiling light. He blinked once, twice for his eyes to adjust and squeeze out the excessive tears. More drops of bitter liquid rolled down his cheeks, creating fresh trails across his face.

In front of him was a young man, possibly of university age, with soft dark curls and kind blue eyes. He was half kneeling, his brows slightly furrowed with concern.

“Bruce—let’s go already,” whined the young lady standing next to them. Dick could see the hem of her fashionable full-length skirt, made with an undoubtedly expensive smooth mauve fabric.

Bruce didn’t stand up and only turned his head to look up at her: “The carriage is waiting outside. It will take you home.”

“But…” the lady was about to argue, but perhaps the expression on Bruce’s face stopped her. She sighed: “Have a good night, Bruce.” And then she walked away.

“Are you alright?” Bruce turned back to ask again, “Your name is Richard, am I correct?”

Dick nodded: “But everyone calls me Dick.”

“May I help you stand up, Dick?” Bruce asked with a smile, extending his hand.

Dick took his hand—comfortably warm, and stronger than he expected—and finally came to his feet, his legs still feeling a bit wobbly. “Thank you, um…Bruce.”

Bruce squeezed his hand lightly before letting go. “Is there anywhere I could take you?”

“The police,” answered Dick without hesitation.

“The police,” Bruce repeated, “What is it that you wish to report?”

“I don't really know,” Dick murmured. “I just…have a bad feeling. It was unlike my parents to have made this kind of mistake.” He tried to picture himself as a detective like in the novels, and the thought alone seemed to have strengthened him. It was a welcome change, even just for a moment, to detach himself from a personal tragedy.

“I see,” Bruce nodded thoughtfully, and it consoled Dick to know that his words were taken seriously. “I know someone trustworthy you could talk to.”

They walked out of the circus together. Bruce hailed a carriage and asked the cabbie to take them to the Gotham City Police Headquarters. Against the steady clop of hooves against granite setts, the church bells rang the hour. Dick counted the numbers.

“It’s nine o’clock!” he said as the resonance of the bells still lingered in the evening air. “Wouldn’t the person have already gone home?”

“Not him,” answered Bruce simply, opening the door and jumping out before the carriage came to a complete stop. “Let’s go in.”

Inside the lobby, an officer was dozing off behind the desk. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Gordon,” said Bruce, loudly enough to prompt the officer’s head to jerk up.

“Your name?” he asked blearily.

“Bruce Wayne.”

The man immediately sat up with widened eyes, standing up to reach the door behind him: “One moment, sir.”

Bruce Wayne? The name sounded remotely familiar, but Dick couldn’t think of when and where he had heard of it. They were soon ushered into a small, cramped office, where books and loose sheets piled up to the ceiling. A spectacled man with neatly trimmed ginger mustache and weary eyes—Lieutenant Gordon, Dick assumed—rose from his chair and shook hands with Bruce.

“You look well,” said Gordon, with almost fatherly sincerity.

“So do you,” said Bruce.

Gordon snorted: “I manage.”

Bruce introduced Dick to Gordon and explained the reason for their visit. With Bruce sitting on his side and Gordon listening intently across from them, Dick found it surprisingly easy to talk. New details sprung up to his mind as he described what he had seen. “My parents didn’t make any mistakes with their moves,” he said, the image of them surreally vivid in front of his eyes. “Something made them fall.”

Gordon looked up from the notepad behind his glasses: “Any idea what it might be?”

“The bar, or the ropes, maybe.”

“I’ll look into it,” Gordon scribbled some more notes before closing the pad. “Thank you, Dick. It’s very brave of you to have come to us.”

“When can we expect to hear back from you?” asked Bruce.

“I can’t say for sure. There are too many cases on my plate,” Gordon removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a deep sigh, he put them back on and looked straight into Dick’s eyes: “But you have my word, kid. I’ll get to the bottom of this and give you an answer as soon as I can.”

Dick would prefer an answer now, but he knew to trust Gordon. There was unwavering determination in Gordon’s eyes, and a kind of transparent earnestness that Dick had also found in Bruce. With the world as Dick had known it lying in ashes, two almost-strangers, sitting in this room, had stirred in him faint smolders of hope.

As Dick climbed after Bruce back into the carriage that was still waiting outside, Bruce asked: “Should I take you back to the circus?”

“I don’t want to go back,” Dick stared at the quiet street, thinking of the horror of having to sleep in an even quieter tent, alone, “but I don’t know where else I could go.”

“I know this might be abrupt, but…if you’d like a place to stay for a while, I have a few empty rooms at home.”

Dick considered the offer. Despite only having met Bruce for a few hours, he made Dick feel safe, like a big brother Dick had always wished for. “That would be…nice,” answered Dick.

Bruce leaned forward and whispered an address to the cabbie. And then they were on the move again. Dick had many questions for Bruce—too many, perhaps, given his curiosity about this well-dressed, kind-hearted young man whose comportment seemed mature beyond even his age. Dick sneaked a peek at him. Bruce had sat back to look out of the window, seeming buried in thought. Dick decided to swallow his questions instead.

The ride was long, and for a good part of it they simply sat in silence. Dick listened to the rhythmic clip-clop, first along cobblestones and then gravels, as cityscape gradually transitioned into meandering hills lined with dark trees, dimly contoured by the crescent moon. When the silence became too heavy to bear, Dick finally picked a question he considered the least prying: “So how did you know Lieutenant Gordon? He seems really nice for a cop.”

“He is,” Bruce agreed. “He caught my parents’ murderer.”

Dick’s heart almost missed a beat at the answer. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted, “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay. It was many years ago.”

Dick finally remembered where he had heard of Bruce’s name. He saw it only a few months ago, from the discarded newspaper that he always collected from Mr. Haly’s office. It had been exactly a decade since the heartless murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, the most prominent philanthropist couple, said the paper, but the crime rate in Gotham remained high. The article went on to recount the tragic evening, when their only son Bruce watched his parents getting shot and bleeding to death in a dark alley. He was only eight.

Dick could only imagine what it would be like to have lost the most important people in his life so young—no, he realized with a sudden sharp pang in his chest, he now knew exactly what it was like, except perhaps Bruce had had it even harder at an even younger age. Dick didn’t know if Bruce had also had someone to be there for him, the way Bruce now was for Dick.

The carriage rolled to a halt in front of a pair of tall wrought iron gates, and a gatekeeper hurried to them. He bowed when he saw Bruce’s face and ran back into the shadow. Soon, the gates slowly opened in front of them, and they continued their way. Dick looked out of the window, feeling his nervousness grew with anticipation. The giant trees along the drive looked imposing, their sprawling canopies overlapping above them, filtering out even the faintest light on an already dark night. When the sky opened up again, past a garden lush and fecund, the carriage finally stopped in a circular driveway. Someone had opened the door, and Dick followed Bruce to step out onto the ground.

Dick should have expected after learning Bruce was _the_ Bruce Wayne that “a few empty rooms” was a far understatement for the stately manor looming over them. Its design was obviously fancy, with intricate stonework and dark windows that Dick had only seen on some cathedrals when he toured in Europe with the circus. It was awe-inspiring, intimidating even, and he shivered despite the late summer breeze.

A man in a spotless white shirt and a black waistcoat buttoned high at the chest emerged behind the carriage door. His black hair was meticulously center-parted and slicked-back, and his thin moustache was twisted at the ends. “Welcome back, Master Bruce,” greeted the man with a perfect British accent. “Please forgive my underpreparedness. I didn't know we were expecting guests.”

“This is Alfred Pennyworth, my butler,” explained Bruce. “Alfred, this is Dick Grayson. He will be staying with us for a while.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Dick swallowed once, unsure what else to do or say under the neutral but watchful gaze of the butler.

“Come in,” Bruce guided Dick along with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t too difficult to adjust to Dick’s new life at the manor. Alfred made sure that he would have all he needed, and Dick, having always been on the road, wasn’t a person of many needs in the first place. Dick had mentally prepared himself to interact with many people in the household, and that didn't turn out to be the case, either. Other than a gatekeeper and a gardener, only Bruce and Alfred lived on the expansive premise of the Wayne estate, and they were the only two actually residing inside the manor.

Dick had also learned that Alfred was much more than a butler to Bruce. As Bruce explained to Dick over their first dinner—multicourse, with _actual_ silverware—since Dick’s arrival, Alfred had served as Bruce’s guardian until Bruce recently turned eighteen, and he still remained like family.

Dick couldn’t tear his eyes from Bruce as he heard him talk, couldn’t help but notice his polished look, the ease with which he navigated the many pairs of shiny forks and knives in various shapes and sizes. For an instant, Dick was hit with a strange mix of jealousy and longing. Just like Dick, Bruce had lost his parents, but unlike him, Bruce had another father figure in his life and a fabulous fortune. And more importantly, despite what had happened, Bruce had grown to become so confident, so capable, and so…elegant that Dick didn’t know what he would ever need to do to be like Bruce.

Dick understood that he should feel grateful, for Bruce had given him hope of finding out the truth behind his parents’ death, had shared with him the warmth and comfort of his own home. He wanted to cling to that hope and warmth and comfort, however temporary they might be, but they somehow further exposed just how alone and inadequate he felt. Uncontrollably, tears began to well up in his eyes.

“What’s the matter, Dick?” Bruce laid down the silverware on the fine china plate, frowning. “Is it something I said?”

Dick shook his head, looking up to the elaborately carved wooden ceiling to force back his tears. “I’m fine,” he said as he squeezed out a weak smile to Bruce.

“I hope…you have found the living situation comfortable here? I’m sure you have already noticed that many rooms are locked—” And many pieces of furniture covered with sheets, Dick discovered when Alfred gave him a tour of the manor. “—Alfred and I never needed so much space. And after I went to university last year, we decided to only keep the core functions.”

“It’s very comfortable,” answered Dick, before adding, “Thank you.”

“I’m glad,” said Bruce, now looking slightly more relaxed. “If you’d like, I could show you around the grounds tomorrow. They are quite pleasant.”

“I’d love that.”

When Dick finished breakfast the next morning, however, Bruce was still nowhere to be seen.

“Where is Bruce?” asked Dick when Alfred came into the dining room with a silver salver to retrieve the tableware.

“Master Bruce is in the ballroom,” Alfred answered. “He says that you may go find him when you are ready.”

Alfred had previously shown Dick where the ballroom was, but Dick didn't get to see the inside because “I’m afraid Master Bruce is currently occupying the space.” Was Bruce an avid dancer? Dick pictured in his head Bruce waltzing in circles with a lady in a mauve dress, surrounded by ritzy mirrors and chandeliers, and it seemed very fitting. But Dick was pretty certain that there wasn’t anyone else in the manor for Bruce to practice dancing with at the moment. Was Bruce dancing on his own? Perhaps Dick could ask Bruce to teach him…As Dick reached the double mahogany doors leading to the ballroom, the thought made his cheeks warm.

Dick knocked three times and received no answers. He knocked again, more loudly this time, but Bruce still didn't come to the door. After what he considered a reasonable lapse of time for anyone to respond, Dick quietly turned the doorknob and opened a slit to peek inside.

Dick sucked in a breath at the sight in front of him. Inside it looked no longer like a ballroom, but more like a...training room. He recognized some of the apparatus: a heavy bag hung from the ceiling where a chandelier must have been, a wood dummy—its body already scratched and faded—standing in a corner, climbing ropes, parallel bars, and a pommel horse, on which Bruce was currently exerting himself. Bruce’s body was fully extended as he pulled his arms all the way around, swinging in full circles with legs perfectly stretched and held together. He was only wearing a pair of long white drawers, his upper body completely bare.

Dick found himself mesmerized as he stared at Bruce, watching him moving back and forth between two handles with such elegance and flexibility. As an acrobat, Dick understood too well the level of strength and endurance it would take to sustain such dizzying perpetual circular motion. Dick’s eyes followed the curves of Bruce’s strong arms, muscular chest, defined abs, and thick thighs as they contracted and expanded. He suddenly felt funny, an odd current of heat rippling through his lower belly.

Carrying through the speed and momentum with such incredible technique that seemed so effortless, Bruce switched to a series of quick swings and scissors, before pulling himself up into a slow handstand. He held himself still as he breathed heavily, his feet pointing straight up to the ceiling, his white drawers soaked with sweat and plastered to his legs. Dick swallowed hard as he watched the sheen of sweat on Bruce’s body coalesce into countless beads that rolled down along his neck, onto his face, and into his jet-black hair. Dick could sense the heat in his own body sinking down. A dull throbbing made his entire groin feel tingly.

Releasing one arm, Bruce was about to dismount. Dick’s breath hitched. In that instant he finally remembered the reason he came to the ballroom, but his face was so hot and heart racing so fast as if he had just witnessed something he shouldn’t see. Without further thought, Dick turned around and fled, running as fast as he possibly could.

He escaped back to the dining room and almost collided into Alfred, who asked in surprise: “Master Dick! Did you not find Master Bruce in the ballroom?”

“I—I did,” stuttered Dick, feeling breathless, his heart still pounding. “I just...didn’t want to disturb him.”

“It is quite alright. He has specifically asked to let him know when you are prepared to go outside.”

“It’s okay. I…I can wait,” Dick settled in a chair, willing himself to calm down. When Alfred brought him some tea, Dick slid lower in his chair, hoping that Alfred wouldn’t notice the bulge in his pants.

Dick could barely register what happened next during the tour of the grounds. In fact, he could hardly focus on anything else besides Bruce in the following days. His mind was taken with the subtle shades of blue of Bruce’s eyes when he looked at Dick, under the bright morning sun, in a rainy afternoon, or against the flickering candlelight; the curve of Bruce’s mouth when he smiled, even just faintly; and the movement of Bruce’s agile fingers when he retrieved a book from the top shelf, or when he played the piano absentmindedly.

Bruce was standing in front of the grand piano with only his right hand on the keyboard. The lacquered surface of the golden-brown wood veneer looked mellow with age. The sheet that once cloaked the instrument pooled at Bruce’s feet, but everything else in the drawing room remained under covers. Dressed in a black frock coat, Bruce and the piano, against a sea of beige, appeared almost as if they were floating in a timeless void. Hearing Dick’s footsteps, he stopped playing and half turned to the door.

“I like your playing,” Dick said as he walked closer to Bruce.

“Thank you. I haven’t touched a piano for a while,” Bruce looked unseeingly into the distance with a wistful smile. “My mother used to teach me. She was very fond of music.”

“You miss her.”

“I do, every day.”

Dick lifted up the sheet from the furniture nearest to the piano and dragged it across to reveal a chaise longue in gilded wood, complete with embroidered silken upholstery. Tiny particles of dust rose into the air, shimmering under the ray of afternoon sunlight sneaking through closed curtain drapes. Dick sat onto the soft cushion. Bruce also settled next to him.

“So...does it ever get better?” Dick asked. Would they ever go away—the pain of loss, the anger about unfairness, the guilt for survival, and the emptiness of being left behind?

“Not better, just...different.” answered Bruce after a brief silence. “People say that it takes time, that it’s a process which may require years.”

“But they don’t know what it’s really like.”

Bruce leaned back and rested his head against the back of the chaise. He let out a long breath, “One’s scars are his own to carry.”

Dick considered those words. In their shared loneliness, he didn’t feel so alone anymore. “I’m...grateful that you have let me stay.”

“I’m grateful to have you here, Dick,” Bruce tilted his head at him.

Dick looked into Bruce’s eyes, their quiet depth drawing him in like ocean. He lowered his gaze before he would drown in them. In his peripheral vision, Dick saw Bruce’s hand resting on crossed legs, so close that Dick could touch it if he reached out his own hand by a few inches. But he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Bruce wouldn’t welcome a boy’s touch like that. It would be highly inappropriate, that much Dick still knew. “Would you play some more?” he finally asked.

“If you could tolerate more,” smiled Bruce as he stood up to pull out the bench from underneath the piano. He properly sat down this time. Dick didn’t know what piece Bruce was playing—he would remember to ask him later—but the music, slowly stretching on with such sweet melancholy, tugged at his heart. Sitting among long-gone memories of happiness and splendor now wrapped in shrouds and covered in dust, surrounded by music wafting from Bruce’s fingertips, Dick wanted to smile and weep at the same time.

When Dick returned to his own bedroom that night, solitude became even more of a torment than it already had been. He threw himself onto the mattress and sighed deeply. For many nights, he would close his eyes and see blood. More recently, however, a different set of imagery had come to occupy his sleepless hours: lines of tight muscles, beads of sweat, and the masculine weight between thick thighs. He tossed and turned, trying to drive the discomfiting thoughts out of his mind while secretly wishing to hold on to them.

As if his head wasn’t already a chaotic space, Dick kept hearing the music that Bruce had played, kept seeing Bruce’s wistful smile and pensive eyes. Dick’s heart ached as much as did his growing erection. He wanted Bruce, as much as he wanted to be like Bruce. Unable to help himself, Dick grabbed a pillow and started to grind his prick into it. The friction felt good, and the unfamiliar pleasure felt almost sinful. He planted his face into another pillow to muffle his whimpers. Raw desire spiraled with desperate confusion as he slowly drifted into a drowsy limbo and eventually fell asleep.

Dick didn’t know how long he had been sleeping before he blinked his eyes open. The room was pitch dark, so it must still be in the middle of the night. He tried to turn from his side to his back, and realized halfway that he had leaned into another body behind him, heated breath tickling against the nape of his neck.

“Wha—” Dick quickly inhaled, but his mouth was immediately sealed with a kiss.

“Shh…” whispered the man, before deepening the kiss. He held Dick’s chin with one hand to keep his face turned towards himself, and caught Dick’s wrist with another.

Dick relaxed against the man’s large frame as he licked Dick’s lips and pushed his tongue inside, hungry and demanding. Dick heard himself making funny keening noises from the back of his throat. He opened his mouth wider and tried to mimic the movement of the man’s tongue, attempting to reciprocate his vigor, however awkwardly. The man groaned and threw a knee across Dick’s body, flipping him on his back and climbing over him.

It was too dark to see the man’s face, but Dick knew who he was. Dick remained quiet. The man slid a hand into his hair. Dick’s eyes fell shut as the man tightened the grip to expose the side of Dick’s neck. He felt a wet kiss landing on his prickling, highly sensitive skin, before another, and another. The now familiar throbbing heat rose from his groin again. Another hand snaked underneath his nightshirt. A warm, wide palm roamed freely over his chest and his stomach, touching, pressing, caressing.

Dick whimpered and held on to the man’s strong shoulders. The man’s hand had wandered lower to cup his prick and balls with one palm. Those agile fingers gently massaged and teased him into hardness. When the man finally began stroking him, Dick’s entire body tensed up and his toes curled. He clutched at the solid biceps, his nails digging deeper into the muscles as the man gradually sped up. The man’s hand was so tight, so warm, and moving so fast. Dick bucked his hips, wanting more of the touch, the heat, and the friction. He could feel the sensation building up, pushing him into unknown territories, and he was both scared and thrilled as he inched towards the edge. It was intoxicating, and simultaneously unbearable, and he wanted to come, he was coming, and oh god he couldn’t hold back anymore and cried out: “ _Bruce_ —”

Dick jolted awake. He was panting heavily, his entire body covered in cold sweat. He quickly sat up to look around the room. He was alone. The pale light of dawn filtered in through the curtains, and morning birds had already begun their chorus outside his window. Dick lifted up the blanket—the front of his underpants was wet and sticky. He threw himself back into the pillows, taking a few slow, deep breaths to steady his heartbeat.

Staring blankly at the entwining vines and roses on the stucco ceiling, Dick had two realizations, and he didn’t know which one frightened him more: _I like men. And I’m in love with Bruce Wayne._


	3. Chapter 3

After the interlude with Cobblepot and Bruce, the dress rehearsal moved on to Act Three. Dick sat on the floor near the stage entrance, watching while stretching his hamstrings. The flowing drapery of a pink peplos dress brushed over his feet. Dick looked up to find Dinah Laurel Lance, the leading soprano, combing her pooling blond hair next to him.

“Have fun out there,” he smiled.

“I always do,” she responded, before walking past him onto the stage.

Orpheus had finally found Eurydice in the Underworld, and was ready to bring her back to Earth. Bound by the condition that he shall not lay eyes on her on their way back, he painfully refrained from looking at and explaining to her. Eurydice took Orpheus’s froideur as a sign that he no longer loved her, and Dinah poured out her heart with the aria “Fortune ennemie”: _Oh bitter moment! Oh cruel fate! To pass from death to such sorrow! I was used to the peace of a tranquil oblivion; but in these tempests my heart is shattered._

Dick let out a soundless, bitter laughter. Oh cruel fate indeed, when he thought he had forgotten about his impossible childish infatuation, only to have his heart so easily swayed again at Bruce’s reappearance.

No longer able to restrain himself, Orpheus turned to look at Eurydice, who then died again. Overcome with grief, Orpheus lamented in the famous aria “J’ai perdu mon Eurydice”: _What shall I do without Eurydice? Where shall I go without my love? Eurydice! Eurydice! O heavens! Answer!_ Orpheus cried as Valley pushed and strained to reach the higher notes. Staring at Eurydice’s body now lying supine in front of him, he took a few steps back, desperate and unbelieving.

Things happened very quickly after that. Before Dick could see clearly, he heard a loud crashing sound. A man—was it Valley?—screamed. As staff hurried to the stage, Dick also rose to his feet and finally saw the source of the commotion. Behind Valley, who now sat panting on the floor, shocked and weak, the entire backdrop had collapsed. Had Valley taken another step back, it would have fallen on him and potentially killed him on the spot.

“It must be him! The Phantom of the Opera!” someone yelled. “The ghost is here!”

“It’s been happening for months!” roared Valley as two people helped him up. He batted away their hands. “I’m done! I quit! I shall never set foot in this opera house again unless you fools make absolutely certain of my safety!” He tore the himation off his shoulders and threw it on the floor, before storming off.

The spacious auditorium was dead silent until Dinah, having now stood up as well, sneered: “Well, as least I don’t have to endure his shrieks anymore.”

“Oh shut up, Lance!” said Cobblepot gruffly as he stomped onto the stage. “The show is sold-out tonight, and we just lost our tenor! What would people think of me? I didn’t buy this place to become some laughing stock in high society!” He pointed a finger at the stupefied face of the conductor in the orchestra pit. “Where is the understudy?”

“There—there is no understudy, sir. This production is entirely new.”

“I don’t care! Go find a stand-in for me! Now!”

Dick stumbled when Madame Cain suddenly grabbed him by his shirtsleeve and dragged him to the middle of the stage. “This boy sings well,” she stated.

“Really?” Cobblepot squinted, his chin raised. “A chorus boy?”

“Try him.”

Cobblepot eyed Dick up and down before asking: “What’s your name, son?”

“Richard Grayson, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“And how long have you been singing?”

“For a while now,” answered Dick as Tim, in the crowd slowly gathering around him, raised a questioning eyebrow, “but I’ve only started taking lessons a few months ago.”

“Who’s your teacher?”

“I…I actually don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Cobblepot’s voice raised, “How—”

“Just try him,” repeated Madame Cain.

“Can you sing the aria just now? ‘J’ai perdu mon Eurydice’?” asked the conductor.

Dick nodded. He cleared his throat as the music started, and took a deep breath.

When the last note ended, the auditorium fell silent again. Finally, the conductor spoke up: “I’m surprised there has been such a hidden gem under our own roof.”

“Will he do?” asked Cobblepot.

“Quite sufficiently so.”

“Well, listen son,” Cobblepot put a hand on Dick’s shoulder, his eyes narrow behind his monocle, his long nose close to touching Dick’s face. “It’s your lucky day. You seem to have the voice and the look for the role, so we’ll give you a chance tonight. Don’t mess up, you understand me?”

“Yes. Thank you, sir,” said Dick, a little breathless from the quick turn of events.

“Good,” Cobblepot patted him once, before shouting to the crowd, “Now back to work, all of you! We have a show to put on tonight!”

Tim gave Dick a look that said “you’ll need to explain everything to me later” before Dick was ushered into the lead tenor’s dressing room.

“There you are!” the head of wardrobe, a short silver-haired man with mirthful eyes, soon entered with an armful of the blue himation picked up from the stage floor. “Unfortunately, Jean-Paul was still wearing the white chiton when he left, so I had to look for a substitute for you. Let’s see if this yellow one looks good on you with the blue.”

And those were what Dick wore for the actual performance in the evening. He was waiting by the stage entrance for his cue when Dinah approached him. “Are you nervous?” she smiled.

“A little bit,” Dick admitted quietly.

“Don’t worry. At least you won’t be as bad as him,” she pointed her chin to the stage. Before the main show, comedian Jack Napier was entertaining the audience to disastrous effects. He laughed much more than the audience did.

“Why is he still around after all this time?” asked Dick.

“Lefevre pitied him, but I can’t say Cobblepot will share the sentiment.”

Listening to the familiar dissonances as the orchestra began tuning, Dick’s throat tightened and his heart lifted. This was it. This was the night that he had been training for, although he had never really dared hoping for it until it had finally become true. The heavy red velvet curtains parted to the sound of somber sinfonia at Eurydice’s funeral, and dancers, dressed as shepherds and nymphs, flocked to the stage. “Good luck,” Tim whispered when they brushed shoulders.

When Dick finally walked to the center of the stage, he could see that it was indeed a full house, filled with Gotham’s crème de la crème as well as major critics and journalists. Men in black tailcoats and women in colorful evening dresses had occupied every plush chair. Dick was used to facing such crowds, having been part of the chorus for years, but not when their gazes were all fixed on only him. The attention thrilled him, the same way swinging freely in the air and gliding above the clapping and cheering audience used to excite a small boy.

Almost immediately, Dick’s eyes were drawn to the royal box to his right on the second floor, framed by an ornate gilded arch and lush red velvet draperies. Dressed in impeccable white tie attire, Bruce was sitting in the first row of the box, holding a pair of opera glasses in his white-gloved hand, graceful and stylish as always. A blonde sat on his left and a brunette on his right, both leaning close to him and giggling as he whispered to their ears.

Dick tore his eyes away from the sight and threw himself flat on a giant rock behind him. Orpheus mourned the death of Eurydice, weeping and calling her name repeatedly. Dick hardly needed much acting as he lamented his lost love. It was perhaps a fortunate coincidence that the scene had called for an outright emotional expression to cover his more personal reactions, that the opera had allowed him to redirect the painful longing reemerged from deep inside him into passionate recitatives and arias.

Dinah was a formidable partner to sing with when she joined Dick for Act Three, her fine vibrato conveying a broken heart with trained elegance. She brought out the best in Dick, as his voice soared effortlessly again in “J’ai perdu mon Eurydice”. In a contradictory euphoria, Dick had become one with his role, drawing from the pain of loss and the emptiness of being left behind that had taken root in him ever since that bloody night. Bruce was right—these feelings would never go away, but they had now come to empower him instead.

 _Stop thinking about Bruce_ , Dick reprimanded himself the moment his mind wandered. He needed to concentrate, to surrender himself to the art as his mentor had instructed him. Dick knew that his mentor must be watching the performance somewhere, and that he would expect nothing less than perfect from Dick. Orpheus raised up both hands in anguish as the aria reached its climax: _I am still true to you! Eurydice! Ah, there is no help, no hope for me either on Earth or in Heaven!_

There was no hope for Dick when fate brought Bruce back into his life, just as there was no hope for Dick when he decided to run away from him.

*

Dick had been staying at the Wayne manor for a bit over a month when he finally received updates on his parents’ case. He and Bruce were reading in the living room, each curling up on one side of the leather Chesterfield sofa with a book in hand: _Histoires Courtes pour les Enfants_ for Dick, because Bruce said Dick should continue learning French, which he had picked up a little of in Europe; and _Measurements of the Accuracy of Recollection_ for Bruce, who told Dick it was about “legal psychology.” As late summer rolled into fall, the manor soon turned chilly inside with its high ceilings, and Alfred had already started a fire, which was now crackling under the marble mantelpiece.

There was a knock before Alfred appeared at the door with an envelope: “A letter has just arrived for you, Master Bruce, from Lieutenant Gordon.”

Dick immediately snapped close his book and jumped to his feet as Bruce took a few strides to Alfred and snatched the envelope with two fingers, already tearing it open when he paced back to the sofa.

“What does it say?” Dick asked eagerly, standing on his toes next to Bruce in an attempt to get a glimpse of the letter.

“Does the name Webster Cox ring a bell to you?”

“Webbie? Sure, he used to work for the circus, but he left a while ago.”

“He put acid on the ropes.”

Dick suddenly found it hard to breathe again. He sank back into the sofa, blood roaring in his ears. “But…how? Why? Webbie was—” a friend, Dick wanted to say, but the lump in his throat stopped him.

“Gordon suspects that Cox has been working for the mobster Tony Zucco, although Cox personally denied the connection,” answered Bruce, handing over the letter for Dick to read it, too. “It would be Zucco’s style to send this kind of extreme message to Haly, after he refused to pay protection money.”

Dick’s hand was shaking as he stared at the cursive hand on the paper, trying to register every word. Webster Cox had already been arrested and would soon face trial, which would most likely result in a death sentence, the letter said, but the case had to end here for now, since there hadn’t been any evidence to further link him to Zucco.

Shouldn’t Dick be relieved that he had finally received the answer? To know that his parents’ death really wasn't an accident, and that the murderer was to receive commensurate punishment? But the knowledge of Zucco erased any consolation the letter might have brought him, like a limp conclusion without the final words. How merciless was life, to always mix honey with poison, when Dick only wanted closure.

Dick didn’t realize his face was covered in tears until Bruce sat down and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to pull him into a wordless half-hug. Dick leaned in and closed his eyes, listening to Bruce’s steady heartbeat. Silence stretched long and thin between them until Bruce said: “I was disappointed when they captured my parents’ murderer.”

Dick looked up. He couldn’t read Bruce’s expression. Bruce continued: “It took them more than two years to find the man, and I wanted to believe that he must be truly evil and truly intelligent. That he must have a grand scheme against my family to have committed such crime. But as it turned out, he was none of that. He was just a mugger, hungry and cold late at night, who happened to run into us.”

Bruce took a deep breath. “I have learned since then that life was never fair. Justice was never perfect. People would always hurt each other, out of hatred, greed, or desperation. But I want to change that. I want to correct that. I _will_ correct that, one day, and people like Zucco will be behind the bars.” Bruce’s lips thinned into a determined line, the fire reflected in his eyes burning quietly.

“I wish I could be like you,” Dick whispered, unable to look away from Bruce. “You seem so sure of everything.”

Bruce exhaled a closed-mouth laugh, “Quite the opposite, Dick. I’m feeling more lost than I have ever been.”

“How so?”

“I...I’ve been considering quitting university. I thought reading law would be useful, that it would help me protect the weak and right the wrong, but learning more about the legal system has only made me realize how porous it is.” Withdrawing his arm from behind Dick, Bruce folded his hands and rested his elbows on the knees. “To be truthful, I don’t really feel belong there. My classmates only care about women, booze, and status. I’ve spent all my free time on my training: boxing, fencing, gymnastics, and the like, but it’s not enough. I want to do more. I need to do more. I just don’t know what, or how. Not yet.”

“I’m sure you will find out soon,” said Dick, “If anyone can achieve those goals, it has to be you.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” Bruce was smiling again as he turned to Dick. “Now that your parents’ case is closed, what do _you_ plan to do? I know this is not much of a family, but if you want to stay, perhaps I could adopt—”

“No,” Dick said at once.

Dick wanted to stay. Of course he did. He wanted to stay close to Bruce, close enough to touch, to lean into the strong embrace, and to put his lips on Bruce’s like in his dream. But Bruce, so kind and generous of him, was offering Dick a family. A month ago, a family was all that Dick had ever wished for. Now, it was so far from what he really wanted from Bruce.

Dick wanted to stay, but he didn’t know how Bruce would react should he finally discover Dick’s true feelings one day. Bruce would be shocked, certainly, and maybe repulsed, too, before deciding that it had been a mistake to keep Dick, and that it would be best to send him away. Dick could already imagine the dread and pain that would ensue, and they terrified him enough even just as possibilities. He had already lost two people he loved the most. He couldn’t afford, couldn’t risk losing another one, just because he wanted Bruce the _wrong_ way.

“No,” repeated Dick, as if it would sound truer when he did, “I…I miss circus life. I want to go back.”

Bruce nodded: “Of course. I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“No!” said Dick, his mind such a tangled mess that he didn’t know how to put together words anymore. “No, it’s not that. I…you’ve been nothing but kind to me, Bruce, but I…” _I wish I were older. I wish I were better. I wish I were worthy of you._

Dick couldn’t finish the sentence, but Bruce didn’t press on either. “When do you plan to leave, then?” he asked.

 _Never_ , thought Dick. “Tomorrow morning, if it isn’t too much trouble,” he answered instead.

“I’ll let Alfred know to prepare a carriage for you,” said Bruce, standing up. “You know the address of the manor now. You will always be welcome here.”

Dick never returned to the manor after that, however, and he read from the newspaper a few months later that Bruce had left Gotham to travel the world. Dick stayed with the circus for a short while before deciding there were too many memories for him to bear. As he roamed aimlessly on the streets, he discovered a poster in front of the Gotham Opera House announcing that they were recruiting new ballet dancers for the chorus. He went inside for audition without much expectation, and Madame Cain, impressed with his flexibility and agility, immediately took him in.

With all Dick’s previous hopes and dreams shattered and swept under the carpet, the world of opera and ballet opened up to him, welcoming him into her loving, dreamlike bosom.

*

Standing dumbfounded on stage, Dick had never seen a response so enthusiastic from the audience that it bordered on fanatical. The crowd erupted into an explosion of applause and cheers when the last chord of the orchestra was still hanging in the air. Every man or woman was standing, from the first row right in front of him, to the parterre, and to the upper tiers. Dick almost forgot to bow again until Dinah clutched at the side of her dress and descended into another deep curtsy. He extended his arms and turned to acknowledge the rest of the cast behind him, when his eyes met Bruce’s again.

Like others in the audience, Bruce was also in standing ovation, clapping widely with his gloved hands. There was a fiery intensity to his gaze as his eyes followed Dick. It made Dick’s heart leap, when he thought the exhilaration he was experiencing was already overwhelming. For an instant, it was as if all the noises had faded away, and all the people—the blonde and the brunette next to Bruce, the cast on stage, and the rest of the audience—had receded from view. It was just Dick, and Bruce, whose eyes retained the sharp glint in them despite the years that had passed.

In that instant, Dick felt avenged, although the feeling immediately embarrassed him for its pettiness: _I might never make you love me, Bruce, but at least I could make you proud of me._

Soon after Dick returned to the peace of his own dressing room, someone burst through the door. “It really was you singing at night all this time!” Tim exclaimed, still dressed in the red shirt of the Furies. “I should have known it! Richard Grayson, ever the _Boy Wonder_.”

“Oh come on, Tim. Don’t make fun of me.”

“So, tell me everything about your secret training and your mysterious mentor,” demanded Tim, landing both hands heavily on Dick’s shoulders.

“There really isn’t that much to tell,” said Dick, before relenting under Tim’s insistent stare. “Okay, okay. About five months ago, I heard a voice calling my name at night, from somewhere between these walls. The person wouldn't reveal himself, but he said he would be willing to give me voice lessons if I promised to keep it a secret between us.”

“Does he have a name? Do you have any guesses who he might be?”

Dick shook his head: “He has never shown up in person or said anything about himself, and I’ve never asked him either. I’d like to think of him as my Dark Knight.” Tim laughed a little and Dick couldn’t help but laugh with him. “I know, I know. It sounds silly, but I think it’s fitting, you know? Since he’s like my guardian angel of the night. He calls me ‘little bird,’ like my mother used to.”

“You’re blushing,” Tim pointed out.

“No I’m not.”

“Ha!” Tim laughed again. “Whatever your secret is, you deserve the success tonight. You belong to the stage, really. I’ve been surprised you are content just staying in the chorus.” His face turned more serious as he continued sincerely: “You’re a great artist, Dick. Even with your crazy leaps and jumps alone, you could have made a stellar career at any _real_ ballet company.”

“That’s a great compliment, from the smartest person I know,” Dick smiled. “Madame Cain gave me a home when I most needed it. To be honest, I’m more surprised that _you_ ’re still staying here.”

“I still need to support my father. This job doesn't pay that much, but at least I get to enjoy it at the same time,” Tim shrugged. “Also, I can’t leave you here on your own, can I?”

Dick patted Tim on the back. The opera house had become more than just a home to Dick; it had become a family.

They both turned their heads when someone knocked loudly, his voice muffled through the door: “Dick? Mr. Cobblepot asked for you at the Patrons Lounge. The reception is starting soon.”

“Off you go,” Tim shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

The Patrons Lounge on the second floor already smelled strongly of expensive cigars and colognes when Dick stepped inside. The necklaces and earrings of the ladies glistened under the chandeliers, as did the cufflinks and watch chains of the gentlemen. A quartet was playing in the corner, although the music was drowned by the sound of conversations. Dick considered fetching himself a drink when he saw Cobblepot weaving through clusters of patrons and their guests. “Grayson! Come over here!” He waved frantically at Dick. “Mr. Bruce Wayne would like to speak to you!”

Dick followed Cobblepot to the busy bar, where Bruce was leaning against the shiny wood bar top, fingers pinching the stem of his glass of champagne. Bruce walked up when he saw them, extending a hand: “Congratulations. Your singing was breathtaking.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Wayne,” said Dick, shaking his hand politely without lingering for its warmth.

Bruce’s smile was small but genuine, “Call me Bruce, like the old times.”

“Did you know each other from before?” Cobblepot’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, well. I shall leave you to yourselves, then.” He backed off and turned to greet other dignitaries instead.

“Should I call you Richard now?” asked Bruce. Dick noticed that the man was still a few inches taller than him, and wider at the shoulders.

“No…just Dick is fine,” said Dick, before adding, “Like the old times.” He hated himself for feeling heat on his cheeks like a child again.

They both paused for a moment, not knowing what else to say, until someone else broke the silence: “Hello Bruce, care to introduce me to the man of the night?” The man looked older than Bruce with his pale blond handlebar mustaches and matching goatees, in contrast to his healthy tanned skin indicative of someone fond of outdoor activities.

“This is my friend Oliver Queen. He’s visiting from Star City.”

“A truly spectacular performance, Mr. Grayson,” said Queen in a dramatic lilt. His eyes lit up as he looked past Dick’s shoulder: “And Ms. Lance! No canaries in this world could sing as beautifully as you did. I must confess I have been completely enthralled.”

“And no other men could talk as sweetly as you do,” answered Dinah, joining their conversation from behind Dick, “Mr.…”

“Oliver Queen,” Queen gently took Dinah’s hand and breathed a kiss on the back of it, “but please, call me Oliver. May I have the honor to offer a drink to our prima donna? There is a quiet corner where we could enjoy more privacy.”

Dinah’s lips smiled, but her eyes were unimpressed. “You seem a very practiced man, _Oliver_.”

Queen blinked, his mouth twitching slightly at the corners. He took a step back and made a slight bow. “Please forgive my temerity. I have gotten ahead of myself. Man is least himself when he talks in his own person.”

“I don’t drink,” Dinah lifted her chin and tilted her head, “but perhaps you could redeem yourself with an interesting conversation.” She already began walking towards the quiet corner, leaving Queen to follow her, his smile widening into a grin.

“Your friend is quite a character,” Dick said as he watched them leave.

“He has a way of talking, but he means no harm,” said Bruce, looking down into the champagne flute with a faint smile of amusement on his lips. “I admit I didn’t expect a reunion with you as such,” he took a sip of his drink and then looked back up at Dick, who couldn’t help but take note of the thick lashes. “You’ve changed.”

“And you haven’t,” responded Dick, too aware of Bruce’s proximity. Bruce no longer smelled like clean soap, a distinct nose that Dick could still recall clearly, having once snuck into Bruce’s room just to smell him from his pillows. He was wearing some kind of rich woody cologne now, probably of the latest fashion. But the familiar blue of his eyes and curve of his mouth only reminded Dick that perhaps six years was too little time to have passed after all.

Bruce chuckled: “I’m afraid that’s hardly true.”

“How have you been?”

“Well enough. Many things have happened since we parted ways.”

“I have no doubt about that.” Dick’s curiosity was piqued. He wondered just how much truth there was to the papers’ sensational stories. Bruce as Dick had known him wouldn’t have squandered his time and talent on such trivial pursuits, but again, time could shape people in often unimaginable ways.

“I’ll probably be a tiring bore if I keep pestering you with details of my life. We must catch up over dinner, however. I shall write to you soon to set up a place and time, if your schedule hasn’t become too unrelenting.”

Dick nodded: “I’d love that.”

As if suddenly having thought of something, Bruce took out his silver pocket watch and snapped open it, his brows furrowed. “I must go now,” he smiled apologetically at Dick. “I am expected somewhere else, and I probably shouldn’t keep people waiting for too long.”

Dick immediately thought of the blonde and the brunette at the royal box. “Of course,” he said, with as much polite distance as he could manage. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Bruce.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so satisfying to write. Eeeeeeee!

Dick was exhausted by the time he finally retired to the dressing room again, having been dragged around by an overzealous Cobblepot to greet and converse with one important guest after another. His face hurt from all the smiling and his stage costume reeked of a nauseating blend of cigar smoke, perfume, and alcohol. He washed his face in the basin and quickly changed into a simple white shirt and a pair of dark trousers. He supposed he could go back to the dancers’ living quarters, but instinct told him he should stay longer here. It had already been a few days since his last voice lesson, and his mentor would probably want to provide some comments after his debut.

Dick sat down in the armchair and waited, listening to the clock ticking on the wall. Before long, he heard the Dark Knight’s deep baritone out of nowhere: “Bravo, bravo, bravissimo...”

Dick immediately stood up, “You’re here!”

“You sang beautifully tonight, my little bird. Your carried my spirit with your voice.”

“T—Thank you, sir.”

“You have done well with your training. Now enjoy your hard-earned triumph and glory.”

“And I owe them all to you,” said Dick, looking around for the source of the elusive voice. “Please, sir, would you show yourself at last, so I may pay my respect in person?”

“Flattering child,” the voice huffed, but not displeased, “you shall know me, if you look at yourself in the mirror...”

The voice was hypnotizing. Following the movement of the sound through the walls, Dick’s feet led him in front of the tall floor mirror, gold leaves already peeling off from its carved frame. He looked vacantly into the mirror, not seeing anything else besides his own reflection. Slowly, however, the glass began to glow and shimmer, growing increasingly transparent as the image of a large shadow emerged, overlapped with his reflection, and replaced it completely. Dick gasped when the mirror suddenly swung open towards him to reveal a figure standing there.

 _A demon_ was Dick’s first reaction. The man’s face—Dick wanted to believe he was still human—was under a black cowl with pointy horns—or ears?—that only exposed his thin lips and strong jaw. He was donning a sweeping black cape with a tall collar that was regally folded down. The rest of him was similarly clad in black, with leather belt pouches, gauntlets, and heavy boots. He was human, Dick concluded as he let out his caught breath, although a peculiarly dressed one.

The Dark Knight extended a leather-covered hand towards him, and Dick took it without further thought. The hand was cold, but Dick held on to it as he pulled him into the entrance that led to a secret passage. The mirror swung close behind Dick, and the Dark Knight removed a candelabrum from the sconces along the brick wall. He led Dick down the long staircase, through a narrow tunnel, until they reached what seemed like a giant underground cave. It was difficult to see amidst the heavy mist wafting and swirling around them, but the man seemed to know his way well around here, leading them straight to the direction where a small dock slowly emerged.

A single boat floated there, rocking gently against the dock in the flowing water. The Dark Knight stepped into the boat with perfect balance before guiding Dick along. Dick only realized after having sat down that he had been holding the man’s hand the entire way.

They traveled slowly across the misty subterranean lake, the air cold and humid around them. Dick rubbed his arms through the shirt to smooth out the goose bumps. “Are you cold?” asked the man while rowing, defined muscles visible despite the dim light and his dark clothing.

“I’m fine,” answered Dick, ducking his head as they passed a mass of stalactites hanging low from the ceiling. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out soon,” the man said simply. “We are almost there.”

Dick jumped off the boat behind the Dark Knight after they reached another dock. The man swiftly moored the boat with a thick rope. “This way,” he said, picking up the candelabrum and led the way into a cavern.

Welcomed by the warm glow of candles and oil lamps, Dick realized that he had entered a lair of some sort. Things here looked makeshift: A broken boat with one side of its hull smashed had been transformed into a bed, although the silky cushions and wool blanket inside looked expensive. Next to it was a table with only three legs and a chair that looked like an old prop long discarded. Tools and gadgets that Dick had never seen before laid scattered on top of the table. There was even an upright piano standing against a rocky wall, its ivory keys already yellowed.

“Is this…your place?” Dick asked tentatively, unable to imagine how someone could have been living here for a long time.

“I stay here when necessary,” said the Dark Knight. “There is danger in the opera house. I’ve been looking into it.” He sat down on the chair and gestured towards the bed: “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Having settled himself cross-legged among the cushions, Dick carefully regarded the man’s cowled face. An idea sprang up to his mind as he recalled the various illustrations he had clipped off from newspapers and magazines and saved in a tin box. He decided it wouldn't hurt to test his hypothesis: “Are you… _the Bat_?”

The man paused for a few moments as if considering his answer. Finally, he nodded: “Yes.”

That certainly explained his outfit, Dick thought, in awe of the legend that had been his hero. Ever since the Bat’s sudden appearance earlier this year, the mysterious vigilante had soon brought terror across Gotham’s evil underbelly, delivering thugs along with incriminating evidence straight to the door of the police, including the infamous Boss Zucco. Some city dwellers feared the unknown figure, who seemed even more powerful than the previously untouchable crime lords. But many others, including Dick, were only grateful to the Bat, for long-awaited vengeance had finally come to those who deserved it.

“You brought Tony Zucco to justice, the man behind my parents’ murder. _And_ you taught me to sing,” Dick said, unbelieving. “I don’t know what I have done to merit your kindness, how I could ever repay you enough.”

“It’s nothing. I wouldn’t want to see your talent go to waste,” said the Bat lightly.

“You said there was danger at the opera. Does it have to do with the Phantom?”

“There are no ghosts in this world, only men with ill intentions,” stated the Bat determinedly. “Sooner or later, they will always slip up and expose themselves.”

“Let me help you with your investigation, then,” Dick offered.

“No. Not yet, at least,” the Bat said. He stood up from his chair, took a few steps, and half-kneeled by the bed. A vague feeling of déjà vu crept into Dick’s mind. Seeing that Dick didn’t flinch from the closing distance between them, the Bat slowly lifted a leather-clad hand to cup Dick’s jaw, drawing a thumb across his cheek. “Just sing for me, my little bird. I’ll be watching.”

Dick shuddered. His eyes fell shut. He didn’t know what else he should be expecting, but he felt safe as he leaned into the touch. The Bat withdrew his hand, however, and Dick opened his eyes at the rustling sounds. The man had unfastened his cape, and he bent forward to tenderly cover Dick with it. “It’s late. You should get some sleep,” he said.

As if prompted, Dick immediately yawned. It had been a long day, even before this surreal encounter with his mentor. “What about you?” he asked.

“I have work to do,” answered the Bat. “I’ll come back later.” He put out the candles and dimmed the oil lamp on the table before heading out.

Wrapped in the surprisingly warm and smooth fabric, Dick felt a wave of drowsiness cresting over him. A soothing faint woody fragrance teased at his nose. He soon drifted asleep, but his slumber wasn't a peaceful one. He seemed to be having many dreams—short and fragmented, one after another. In a whirl of colors, lights, and silhouettes, he dreamed of his mother whispering his name and cupping his face lovingly with soft hands, surrounded by mocking Furies. Her face soon morphed into Bruce’s, with chiseled lines and sharp blue irises. And then his face sank into darkness, a dense and ruthless shadow, an endless passage so hard and cold, before a flickering flame appeared out of the void, lightening up an empty cowl of the Bat, which soon disappeared into a frenzy of dancing shepherds and nymphs.

When Dick finally woke up, it was to the sound of the piano. He took his time to regain full consciousness as he slipped in an out of sleep to the constant flow of notes—Bach’s preludes and fugues, he vaguely recognized, without any pause in between pieces. When he finally sat up with all his senses now returned to him, the cape sliding off his knees, Dick saw the Bat sitting in front of the piano with his back towards him. He climbed out of the bed and quietly walked to stand next to the man, whose masked face was stern with concentration but his gaze elsewhere.

The Bat kept playing, his fingers in perfect coordination as they deftly dissected the different voices of the four-part fugue. Holding his breath, Dick reached out one hand, barely touching the side of the man’s face. His fingertips traced down the brim of the cowl with such caution, like he was walking a tightrope. When Dick curled two fingers, trying to pry the silk mask from the Bat’s face to see the man behind, the music stopped abruptly. The Bat caught his wrist. Startled, Dick tried to pull back, but his hand was held strongly in place.

“I—I’m sorry,” Dick blurted.

The Bat stood up from the bench and released him. “Don’t be too curious,” he warned.

Dick swallowed, “I apologize. I just…didn’t expect you to be such a good pianist.”

“Music helps me think,” said the Bat.

“And what are you thinking about?”

“Many things,” he said, before turning towards the opening of the cavern. “You should go back now. I’ll escort you out.”

The Bat let Dick ascend the final flight of stairs on his own. When Dick finally emerged from behind the floor mirror and closed it tightly, he stared at the indistinct handprint of his own on the shiny glass, feeling as if he had just traveled from another world.

Having splashed some water on his face and smoothed out his hair, Dick left the dressing room. He walked past the stage entrance and saw his fellow dancers already practicing on stage. “Do it again!” he heard Madame Cain’s voice, “Such ronds de jambe! Such temps de cuisse! Don’t be lousy!” Not sure if he was supposed to join them, but equally uncertain about where else he could go, Dick sat at the end of the first row in the audience, going through the libretto in his head.

It was soon break time, and the ballet boys and girls scattered into smaller crowds, sitting or standing as they chatted. Suddenly, the opera’s chief stagehand Brian Douglas appeared from behind the backdrop with a bed sheet as a cloak and a piece of rope in his hand. “His skin is like yellow parchment,” he declaimed, hunching while waving the rope that was shaped like a Punjab lasso, “and his nose is a great black hole…” To add to the dramatic effect, he put his neck through the noose and inserted a hand as well. “…You must be always on your guard, or the Phantom will catch you with his magic lasso!” He pulled the rope taut, and with a mixture of horror and delight, the dancers gasped and applauded the unexpected performance.

“Hold your tongue, Douglas,” demanded Madame Cain disapprovingly. “How distasteful, to be spreading rumors.”

Douglas grimaced before he spoke in Dick’s direction: “Hey Grayson! Mr. Cobblepot asked you to see him at his office in ten minutes. Don’t be late!”

Dick arrived outside the office a bit earlier than that. He was about to knock on the door when he heard Cobblepot’s angry squeak: “Are you telling me that the entire shipment was _gone_? Under the watch of _ten_ guards?”

“Un—unfortunately, yes, sir,” another man’s voice trembled. “They said it was the Bat again, sir.”

“Do you need me to remind you just how difficult it has been to acquire these? And just how disappointed our buyer will be?” Cobblepot continued yelling. “Perhaps, you would like to explain to him in person?”

“No…No, sir!” now the man sounded genuinely scared. “Please give me some time, sir! I’ll think of a solution!”

“You’d better! Kill the Bat if you have to. I don’t care if somebody is playing dress up. If he keeps ruining my businesses, I will make sure that he disappears in no time! Now get out of here!”

The door opened, and a man faltered before he quickly ran away. Dick tried to maintain an innocent straight face as he showed himself at the door, but inside his mind was racing: The Bat could be in danger, and Dick needed to find a way to alert him.

“Did you ask for me?”

“Come in,” waved Cobblepot impatiently behind his mahogany desk. “I have two things to tell you.”

Dick stood in front of the desk and waited. The room smelled like tobacco and bird poop, which shouldn't be surprising, based on the sheer number of exotic birds in fancy cages surrounding them.

“So, the first thing is, you will stay as the lead tenor in _Orpheus and Eurydice_ for the entire run of the production.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank me by bringing in more audience, son. And here is the second thing: You will also replace Jean-Paul Valley as the Count in the upcoming production of _The Amours of the Chevalier_.”

Dick’s eyes widened: “That’d be an honor!” It was confusing, really, when Dick despised Cobblepot for his shady dealings but was grateful for his casting decisions.

Cobblepot leaned further back into his armchair and put a hand on his belly. “The critics are raving about your performance,” he said, chewing on his pipe, “and Mr. Wayne has also taken a particular interest in your career. I suggest that you make an active effort to maintain contact with him. If you keep him close, and keep the donations flowing, I promise to give you all the title roles and make you a star in no time!”

So much for being grateful to Cobblepot, thought Dick, but he only clenched his jaw and answered politely: “Thank you for the advice, sir.”

Bruce’s letter arrived four days later, inviting Dick for dinner in two days at half past seven on a Wednesday—when Dick didn’t have a performance—at the exclusive Chez Brillat-Savarin. Dick immediately responded affirmatively, but it had nothing to do with what Cobblepot had said. Dick wanted to know how Bruce had been doing, to thank him for what he did for Dick years ago, and, more importantly, to end his inconvenient feelings for Bruce once and for all. Dick was no longer a small boy. It was time to move on.

On Wednesday, Bruce sent over a carriage to pick up Dick at the opera. Before leaving, Dick rushed to the dressing room again to call for the Bat, hoping to warn him of Cobblepot’s henchman, and failed for the sixth day in a row. Dick had also tried to pry open the mirror, but it wouldn’t budge at all. Where had the Bat gone? Did Dick offend him so definitively by attempting to reveal his face? Or, much worse even, had Cobblepot’s men already gotten to him? Worry began to brew inside him, but when the clock on the wall chimed along with the ringing church bells, Dick knew he had to go soon. Having examined himself one more time in front of the mirror and adjusted his white necktie, he quickly went outside and hopped into the carriage.

The interior of Chez Brillat-Savarin was exquisite without being overtly extravagant. Candlelight and fresh bouquets filled the space, which was strategically divided with white marble columns and tall stucco arches for more privacy. The maître d’ led Dick to a single table hidden in a semi-enclosed area, where Bruce was already waiting. Upon seeing Dick, Bruce smiled and stood up to exchange a handshake with him. As they sat down, the waiter soon poured another glass of champagne for Dick before delivering the food and wine menus.

“Have the sirs decided what main course they would like for the evening?” after a while, the waiter returned.

“I would like the noisette d’agneau,” said Dick.

“And veau au jus de truffes for me,” followed Bruce. When the sommelier came by, Bruce told him something that Dick only understood as some grand cru of an old vintage, and then they were left on their own again.

“Your French diction is very good,” Bruce commented as he smoothed out the napkin on his lap. “I forgot to tell you last time.”

Dick smiled: “I have been studying it ever since you convinced me of its importance. And Italian and German, too, to learn the librettos.”

“That’s very impressive.”

“I’ve only learned the languages. You are the one who has actually traveled the world.”

Bruce looked up at Dick: “I presume you have read the stories about me in the papers.”

“I have,” and Dick had perhaps followed them too closely for his own peace of mind.

“And…what were your thoughts?” There was perhaps a flash of uncertainty on Bruce’s face, but he still looked entirely laid-back.

“What am I supposed to think?” Dick asked, poking at the amuse bouche in front of him. “Those stories…are they true?”

“They are what they are,” said Bruce ambiguously.

The lukewarm answer crawled under Dick’s skin. He frowned: “Have you…at least found what you were looking for? The way to protect the weak and right the wrong?”

“I think so.”

“What is it?” Dick asked immediately.

“Philanthropy,” Bruce answered. “I have come to realize how much crime arises from desperation, Dick. By sharing my wealth, I shall help reduce crime from its very root.”

What Bruce said made perfect sense, but somehow, the answer felt empty, and it made Dick at a loss. “That is a noble cause indeed,” he eventually said after finishing the last bit champagne in the glass.

The waiter and the sommelier soon brought over the dishes and the wine. Dick briefly praised their quality before he and Bruce ate in silence. The sound of silverware against smooth china never sounded so harsh before. Dick craved for more of a reaction from Bruce, so he asked: “Do you remember that you once said you would put Zucco behind the bars?”

“Yes,” Bruce answered in an instant. “What about it?”

So Bruce had probably missed the news. “Have you heard of the Bat?”

“Do you mean the vigilante?”

Dick nodded: “He captured Zucco, who admitted to everything and was prosecuted for all the blood on his hands.”

Bruce’s eyes mellowed, “I hope justice, however late it might have been, has brought you comfort.”

“It has,” Dick admitted. “I think I have finally stopped having nightmares about my parents.”

“What do you think of the Bat?” asked Bruce.

“He’s a hero, no doubt.”

“Not everyone would agree with you,” said Bruce, and for the first time in the evening Dick heard something close to an edge in his voice. “Wouldn’t it be egoistic, to think that one man had the capacity, let alone the right, to appoint himself as the protector of a city?”

“And why would that matter?” Dick questioned back. “He has changed Gotham for the better, and perhaps for good, too. I only hope there could be more people like him. What he is doing seems like an extremely lonely pursuit.”

Bruce gave Dick a long, piercing look that didn’t seem approving or disapproving. Dick looked straight back into those blue eyes, challenging Bruce to say more, but he fell silent again. After some time, Bruce took a large gulp of wine and said: “Enough with the heavy topics. Shall we talk about music instead? I understand that I should expect to see you again in _The Amours of the Chevalier_.”

They discussed music, literature, and politics afterwards, and Dick found it increasingly frustrating to talk with Bruce. Bruce gave the most perfect and harmless answers that smoothly drove forward their conversations, but every time Dick tried to provoke him, it only felt like cutting through water with a knife. Dick missed the sharpness of Bruce’s mind, the determination in his voice, and the quiet fire in his eyes. Had the comfortable mundane life rounded Bruce’s rough edges so much in merely a few years? Dick had come to dinner with the intention to end his feelings for Bruce, yes, but not in such a way to see the man he had once so admired and loved to have become so…Dick couldn’t even think of a word. It felt off, and it disheartened him, which was probably Dick’s excuse to have consumed more wine than he should.

When they stepped out of the restaurant, instead of getting inside the carriage waiting for them, Bruce asked as he put on his gloves: “Would you like to take a walk?”

“Sure,” Dick was feeling light in his head. Some evening breeze could actually do him good.

They strolled across the street into a park. Fall foliage crunched under their leather shoes. “Believe it or not, I don’t usually drink, Dick. At least not this much,” said Bruce as they kept walking along the winding road.

“I believe you.”

“You don’t sound like you do.”

Dick let out a huff of dry chuckle: “Do you even care about what I think?”

“I do,” Bruce’s voice was low and quiet, “more than you could imagine.”

Dick came to a halt at those words. After another step, Bruce stopped as well and turned around to face him. Bruce’s dark hair shined under the moonlight, as did his gentle eyes. They were just as Dick had remembered them. However reluctantly, Dick had to admit that he still felt attracted to Bruce, a fluttering sensation inside him being further amplified by nostalgia.

Dick took a deep breath. The smell of grass and wet leaves seemed to have cleared his mind a bit. “You know, Bruce, I said the other day that you hadn’t changed. I was wrong.”

“It’s been six years.”

“I know, but you feel like a completely different person now,” Dick smiled bitterly. He had been trying to avoid saying these words out loud, hoping in vain that if he wouldn’t acknowledge the observation, perhaps he could be proven mistaken later. He had been afraid to speak his mind, all these years, not wanting to be abandoned, not wanting to ruin what he already had, but his cowardice had only bought him more pain and disappointment. Dick’s chest heaved as he raised his voice: “Isn’t it pathetic of me, to have wished—”

“Dick—”

“—to have wished that you would still be the same when I grew up, so I could at least properly tell you how I feel about you? I’ve even decided that it wouldn’t even matter if you were to reject me, as long as I could finally be honest for once. But not like this, Bruce, not when you talk while saying so little, when you surround yourself with charming women, when you are the perfect embodiment of privilege that you once didn’t care about!”

Dick didn’t even realize that his entire body had been shaking, but he felt strangely powerful. The long-overdue catharsis had finally freed him from the prison of his heart. Bruce’s face was grim, and Dick was acutely aware of the man’s height towering over him. Bruce looked like his was going to yell at Dick or even punch Dick in the face when he took a step forward, and Dick almost instinctively took a step back.

Instead, Bruce grabbed Dick’s shoulders and kissed him.

The kiss was restrained, their closed lips coming into contact. Dick could almost feel Bruce’s racing heartbeat as clearly as he heard his own. They both stayed absolutely still, as if even the smallest movement would break the fragile moment. As their breaths mingled, their lips parting ever so slightly, suddenly, neither of them was holding back anymore. Dick tightened his hands in Bruce’s hair to keep him close, not caring if anyone might be able to see them. He wanted Bruce. He had wanted Bruce for so long. And from the way Bruce was responding so passionately to him, Bruce wanted him, too.

“Dick…Dick, I haven’t changed, not in the ways that matter,” Bruce whispered earnestly as he cupped Dick’s face and planted more small kisses on his lips. “You have to trust me.”

“I want to trust you,” Dick answered, disoriented, “but I don’t know how.”

“Give me some more time. Please,” Bruce rested his forehead against Dick’s. They quietly breathed in each other as Dick wrapped his arms around Bruce’s waist. Unlike the other night, Bruce smelled clean and austere, and Dick’s heart swelled as past memories overlapped with the present moment.

Nobody else was in the park, so they held their hands for the rest of the walk, until they approached the gate again. When Bruce climbed into the carriage, he hissed and winced in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Dick put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you injured?”

“I might have bruised my ribs during the fencing match a few days ago,” Bruce smiled, a bit feebly. He took Dick’s hand and squeezed it in reassurance. “Don’t worry. They should heal up very soon.”

The carriage stopped right in front of the opera house shortly. Before Dick opened the door, he gave Bruce’s lips a light peck that somehow ended up becoming another sweet and sensual kiss. As Dick walked back to the living quarters, his head swimming from the confluence of fine wine and unexpected romance, he finally felt more hope than doubt about his future with Bruce.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot is happening in my life (and the world, too) and there is so much uncertainty and anxiety everywhere. Good thing I still have this fic to hold on to! Many thanks to all of you for your readership and kudos, and especially to those of you who keep coming back and leaving me lovely comments--they truly mean a lot. <3

_The Amours of the Chevalier_ opened two months after the premiere of _Orpheus and Eurydice_. Just like before, the Bat never showed his face again and only instructed Dick through voice. Their lessons remained regular at night, and Dick assumed that meant the Bat’s other activities were well under control, which was always a relief to him, especially when he read about yet another crime thwarted by the vigilante from the newspaper the next morning.

Waiting by the stage entrance, Dick squirmed as he tried to loosen his lace cravat that matched the lace cuffs. The costume felt stiff and heavy on him, with a blue cutaway coat trimmed with gold lace, an elongated waistcoat made with silver brocade, and knee-length breeches complete with white stockings and buckled leather shoes. “I sympathize with people who used to wear these on a daily basis,” he said, lowering his head to ensure the cravat was still neatly folded. “How am I going to enjoy my rendezvous with the Princess, if I can’t even move freely?”

Dinah laughed: “More reasons for you to take them off, perhaps?” The low sloping shoulders of her voluminous white dress brought out her elegant long neck. “Either way, I assure you that you cut a very sharp figure,” she winked, but the voice from the stage immediately drowned hers.

“Alright, alright. Here’s the last one, ladies and gentlemen! Wanna hear two short jokes and a long joke? Joke, joke, and jooooke. Haha! Ha! Hahahahahaha!” Napier screamed with laughter, his body convulsing uncontrollably as he bent over.

“Poor man. I think he might have lost his mind,” Dinah shook her head sympathetically. “Today is his last day, you know.”

Napier was laughing so hard that Douglas, the chief stagehand, had to personally escort him off the stage. After the orchestra performed a short, lighthearted overture, Dick and Dinah proceeded onto the stage. As usual, Bruce was sitting in the front row of the royal box, but this time only accompanied by Queen next to him.

Bruce smiled and nodded inconspicuously as Dick’s eyes met his, and Dick felt a new kind of thrill rushing through him. Since that evening in the park, they had invited each other to a few more lunches and dinners, and they would steal some kisses in the carriage before and after. This new _thing_ they shared—Dick hadn’t quite decided how to label it—seemed to have placed everything between them under a new light.

On stage, the Princess had just spent the night with the Count, her much younger lover. When a page entered her room with breakfast, the Count quickly hid himself in a closet. To their surprise, the Baron, the Princess’s country cousin, suddenly burst into the room, announcing his engagement to the young daughter of a wealthy merchant, who had also offered a considerable dowry.

The moment the Baron had left, the Princess, bothered by the prospect of the innocent girl in such a loveless arrangement, fell into a brooding silence. The Count returned to her side and they began their duet together.

 _Time is a weird thing_ , lamented the Princess as she regarded her face in the hand mirror. _If you live that way, it’s nothing. But then suddenly, you feel nothing but her. In the mirror she trickles, in my temples she flows. And between you and me it flows again, silently, like an hourglass._

The Count simply hugged her from the back and kissed her hair. _Where is she, when I slip my fingers into your fingers, when I search your eyes with my eyes?_ But she stood and broke free from his embrace. _My darling, today or tomorrow you will go and give me up for the sake of another’s, for someone younger and more beautiful than me._

 _Not today, not tomorrow!_ Avowed the Count, turning the Princess around and holding her hands ardently. _I love you. If there has to be such a day, I do not want to see the day!_

The orchestra crescendoed with the impassioned declaration of the Count, but Dick’s ears picked up another sound creeping into the music. It was laughter, quiet at first, and then growing increasingly hysterical. Before he could improvise some movements to inspect his surroundings without breaking the story, a sonorous cry broke out above him: “Behold! A love so pure, that men can’t help but _fall_!”

Dick’s head immediately jerked up, and to his horror, a body was falling from the rafters. He shielded Dinah behind him as the body dropped onto the stage with a heavy, lifeless thump. The conductor gasped, and then the music stopped dead.

The audience remained largely still, although curious and suspicious murmurs began to brew, uncertain whether what just happened was meant to be part of the plot of the new production. Dick stepped forward cautiously to inspect the body. It was Douglas, his face purple and contorted, his mouth covered with froth, and his neck caught in the tight noose of a Punjab lasso. Dick was going to check for his pulse when a loud and sharp inhale from the audience startled him. He quickly turned his head to follow people’s frightened gazes. Upstage, a gigantic and oppressive shadow rose behind the backdrop and loomed over the stage, its dark wings spreading threateningly wide like death itself. Dick froze in place.

After a chaotic series of movements, the shadow suddenly disappeared. But front-row audience members who had realized that a man had truly died were already hastening to stand up and trying to escape through the exits, and others sitting in the back soon followed suit. Before long, the entire auditorium was a crowded, screaming mess.

“The Phantom of the Opera is here!”

“The Bat is the Phantom!”

“He’s going to kill us all!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats!” yelled Cobblepot as he scurried onto the stage, panting heavily. “Do not panic! It was an accident…simply an accident…” But his words sounded weak and useless amidst the bedlam.

Quickly removing the stiff outer layers of his costume to only leave on a shirt, Dick sprinted to the seating area to help guide the crowd. “Slow down! Just follow the flow!” He tried to project his voice as far as he could. As the crowd carried him towards one of the exits, he spotted a small girl trapped in the corner behind the open door, her blond hair falling messily over her eyes and her face wet with tears. Squeezing his way through, he guarded her between his body and his arms.

“Where are your parents?” Dick asked, but the girl shook her head: “I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry. Let’s go to the lobby first.” Carefully, they began to move, and by the time they had finally made their way out, Dick’s face was covered with sweat. The crowd was less intimating in the spacious lobby, and soon, a blond couple hurried to them.

The girl immediately threw herself at her mother, who lowered her body to pull her daughter into a hug: “Oh Stephanie, you father and I were so worried about you...”

The parents thanked Dick profusely before they left, and just as Dick was about to return to the auditorium, Bruce skipped a few steps coming down the grand staircase. “Dick! I have been looking for you everywhere!” Seeing Dick was only wearing a thin shirt, he quickly untied his cloak and wrapped it around Dick’s shoulders instead. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The night was cold in November, but Bruce’s cloak was warm with the man’s temperature lingering under the thick velvet lining. “Come stay at the manor tonight. The opera house doesn’t seem safe anymore,” said Bruce with a deep frown, almost as a command. He took Dick’s hand as he began walking to the carriage.

“It’s okay, Bruce,” Dick halted, pulling Bruce to a stop with him. He still wanted to check behind the backdrop to find out what had happened earlier. “I will just go back to my room. There are enough of us here to watch out for each other.”

“I insist,” said Bruce. Passers-by were now stealing curious looks at them as their hands stayed locked. They had never been this public before.

“I appreciate the gesture, but it’s fine, really. I can’t leave my friends and colleagues on their own, and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Dick said appeasingly. He was about to pull his hand out of Bruce’s grip when Bruce lifted his hand to his lips and printed a kiss on the fingers.

“I know you are,” Bruce murmured, his breath caressing Dick’s fingertips. He hesitated for a moment longer before saying: “I just…don’t want any harm to come to you.”

“Is this your way of saying you love me?” Dick smiled, half-jokingly. Neither of them had spoken of the word yet. Dick hadn’t really given the question much thought before it simply jumped out of his mouth, and his treacherous heart already began pounding faster.

Bruce only stared into his eyes silently. Dick could see himself in Bruce’s eyes, and he tried to read the indecipherable hidden depths underneath the ocean blue. Dick wondered if he had overstepped; if, even half-disguised with humor, the question was still too early and too heavy.

Stepping closer, Bruce whispered: “Dick…” He swallowed and looked down to the ground, the toes of their shoes almost touching. He seemed conflicted, like he longed to say something but wasn’t convinced that he should. When he looked back up at Dick, he took a deep breath, a white wisp condensing in the winter air. “You know I do.” He sounded unexpectedly shy—boyishly so, as if such admission was a rare indulgence that he didn’t deserve, and Dick suddenly felt emboldened to demand: “Say it. Say you love me.”

After a pause, so very quietly and intimately: “I love you.”

Dick finally couldn’t wait to kiss Bruce. He stood on tiptoe and brought his mouth to Bruce’s. Bruce’s lips were cold, but they slowly warmed up as Dick grabbed the nape of Bruce’s neck and licked into his mouth. The velvety heat between their entwined tongues wasn’t unfamiliar, but it felt so much sweeter with Bruce’s words still hanging in the air. Dick could feel Bruce’s strong hands on his waist, pulling him even closer as if to devour him. A white mist from their quickened breaths encompassed them, until, reluctantly, they finally broke the kiss.

“Good night, my love,” said Dick, savoring the way the word easily rolled off his tongue. He put the cloak back on Bruce, brushing across the broad shoulders with both hands.

“Good night. And be safe.”

Dick watched Bruce’s carriage disappear around the corner before he realized that he was freezing. He dashed back to his room to change into some warmer clothes before sneaking backstage. Having adjusted his eyes to the darkness, he set down the oil lamp and a box of matches in his hands on a crate. He struck a match, touching the flame with the wick to light up the lamp, and that was when he heard a faint creaking of floorboards from behind his back.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Dick didn’t even need to turn around to recognize the man speaking behind him, “So you really were here earlier.”

“I was.”

Dick stashed the box of matches in his pocket and picked up the lamp. He swiveled, the light now casting strange shadows on the Bat’s cowled face. “You know, the audience already think that you’re the murderer.”

“What do you think?” the Bat questioned back.

“Of course it can’t be you!” answered Dick immediately, indignant at the question. “Wouldn’t you do something to clear your name?

“My reputation doesn’t matter. The priority is to find the culprit,” said the Bat simply.

“But people may come after you,” Dick pressed on. “They may hinder your investigations.”

“People will believe what they want to believe. Everything is guesswork until there is real evidence.”

“Speaking of evidence,” Dick took a few steps away from the Bat and lifted the lamp higher, revealing stacks of crates, shelves of props, and racks of costumes around them, “have you discovered anything here?”

“Nothing of note. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle,” answered the Bat before asking, “The voice, before the body dropped—did it sound familiar to you?”

“Yes, and I heard laughter, too…” Something sparked in Dick’s mind as he made the connections: “Jack Napier! The comedian who got fired!”

The Bat nodded: “I thought so as well. I will track him down and find out.”

“Would you keep me in the loop?”

“Stay out of this, little bird. Keep your focus on our next lesson—I expect further improvement on your aria in Act Two.” ordered the Bat before stepping back into darkness.

Dick followed the Bat’s footsteps, but as light moved to dispel the shadows, the man had already disappeared. Dick scanned the floor and the walls with the lamp, trying to locate the Bat’s secret exit and failing. Frustrated, he went back to the living quarters. He couldn’t possibly fall sleep with everything currently on his mind, so he kept vigil in the living room after persuading the scared younger boys and girls to bed.

When the first hints of dawn rolled over the horizon, Dick decided to head downstairs to the dance studio. He had kept the habit of going through his practice routines everyday despite the fact that he no longer belonged to the chorus. After warm-ups, he did a series of quick tendus, battement jetés, and grand battements, preparing for the large expansive jumps of the grand allegro. Tombé, coupé, jeté, jeté, jeté, and repeat…Dick leaped into the air as he looked up and far, his legs extending perfectly straight, his arms swung open, and his back stretched out. He reveled in the way sweat began soaking through his shirt. Working his muscles on his own in this room felt almost meditative these days.

Hearing the door open behind him, Dick landed on a plié.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Tim walked in, waving the morning’s newspaper at him. “Death At The Opera: The Bat Crossed the Final Line?” questioned the headline in large, bold print, accompanied by an ink illustration of a giant bat-shaped shadow on the backdrop of the opera stage. “Here’s another one for your Bat clippings collection. I can’t believe I missed all of this while sitting idly backstage!”

“You make it sound like it was something exciting,” Dick raised an eyebrow as they both sat down into full splits alongside the wall.

Tim leaned forward to rest his arms on the floor and turned his head to Dick, “You have to admit, the mystery _is_ exciting.”

“And what are your insights, detective?” Dick mirrored his pose so they were facing each other.

“The Bat has never killed before, right? So either he had a specific reason to, which means Douglas was probably up to something _really_ evil, or somebody else murdered the man.”

“You seem to have a lot of faith in the Bat,” Dick observed.

“Well, don’t you also? Anyone with any sense of justice should have faith in him.”

“I certainly hope so,” seeing they were the only two people in the room, Dick decided he could open up a bit more. “I never got the chance to tell you earlier, but I finally met my mentor after my debut, and, um, it turned out he was the Bat.”

“What?” Tim’s eyes widened. He was blinking blindly for quite a few seconds, still processing the information, before the knowledge finally slotted in place. “No wonder he has been so secretive. A crime-fighting voice teacher—how incredible is that?”

“You’re the first person to know about this,” admitted Dick.

“Even before your childhood sweetheart?” Tim smirked. Ever since Dick told him after meeting Bruce again about his stay at the Wayne manor six years ago, Tim had been making fun of him whenever he got the chance.

“He isn’t my childhood sweetheart,” Dick corrected him firmly, but Tim only muttered something like “close enough” before saying: “Rest assured, your secret is safe with me. I’m honored that you decided to tell me, although really, you could’ve told me earlier.”

Dick smiled: “I appreciate it.”

“So how are things with Wayne of late? Have you invited him to our holiday masquerade?”

“I haven’t asked him, but I think he is invited as a patron regardless.”

“Good, and I shall expect a proper introduction to your lover this time,” Tim raised his chin. “Honestly speaking, I still don’t understand why you would choose to be with a playboy like him. Maybe this time he can try to convince me that he’s worthy of your affection.”

In the next couple of weeks, as the police attempted in vain to arrest the Bat for questioning, the vigilante’s activities became even more elusive. The opera house, on the other hand, was finally in much-appreciated peace. Attendance at operas soon returned to the usual level as the holiday season inched close. Performers and staff had all come to believe that the time of unknown horror had finally passed, and even Dick couldn’t help but wonder about the same thing.

“Perhaps it was only a one-time revenge for getting fired,” said Dick after his lesson with the Bat one night. His mentor never liked discussing cases with him, but Dick felt entitled to talk about this one because of his own involvement.

“That wouldn’t explain the abnormalities before the murder,” said the Bat.

“Have you located Napier yet?”

“No,” there was a pause, “the name Jack Napier doesn’t exist at all.” Dick could hear the frustration in the Bat’s voice even though it was transmitted from somewhere between the walls.

Despite the mystery and its suspense, the buzzing excitement at Gotham Opera House’s famous Annual Masquerade Ball soon provided a temporary distraction for Dick. One of the biggest social events in the city, the ball had transformed the lobby of the opera house into a glamorous ballroom embellished with fresh holly wreaths. The grand staircase was now lined with evergreen garlands and lit with brand-new candles on towering candelabrums. A Christmas tree, close to ceiling-height, greeted the guests at the entrance. Elegant milky white and transparent blown glass baubles with hand-painted snowflakes, large pinecones, figurines of dancing and singing angels, and billowy gold organza ribbons filled the tree from top to bottom, shimmering under the candlelight as if with whimsical magic.

Dick was wearing a midnight blue domino mask, a royal blue jacket embroidered with gold spangles, and a light blue waistcoat—a theatrical tribute to the myth of Nightwing. Leaning against the marble balustrade of the mezzanine overlooking the lobby, he soon wished that he had covered more of his face, as patrons kept recognizing him and approaching him to talk. To his relief, he didn’t need to do much talking himself. Listening with a polite smile, he provided only occasional comments as they rambled on about their understanding of operas or their most recent trips to Europe.

In between conversations, Dick sneaked a glance at the entrance whenever he could. Tim entered in a similar domino mask, a red jacket, and a pair of black trousers as a nod to Flamebird, Nightwing’s fiery counterpart. He soon perched at the intermediate landing of the grand staircase, where he could comfortably people-watch. After a while, Queen, unmistaken with his signature goatee, came in dressed in full Robin Hood regalia, complete with a green chapeau à bec and a mask to match. Dinah quickly pulled him into the dance floor, her black dress overlaid with feathers and laces in the same color. Bruce, however, was still absent.

An hour or so had probably passed before Bruce finally showed up. When the current conversation came to a lull, Dick excused himself and hurried downstairs to find Bruce. Dressed in dark grey tailcoat and trousers that contrasted the pale gold paisley waistcoat, Bruce wasn’t wearing any mask at all, and his face looked conspicuously bare among a sea of colorful full and half-masks.

“Have you been so busy lately that you have forgotten this is a _masquerade_ , Bruce?” Dick teased after they exchanged kisses on the cheeks.

There was a rare humorous glint in Bruce’s eyes. “How do you know I’m not wearing a mask?” he smiled conspiratorially. “Perhaps I’m somebody else dressing up as Bruce Wayne.”

Dick laughed: “I think I would know if that were the case.” He led Bruce to the side where a small selection of masks were available for underprepared guests and handed him a gold mask on a stick. Bruce took it, but didn’t seem too eager to use it right away.

Seeing that Tim was coming down the stairs towards them, Dick took Bruce’s arm to meet Tim in the middle: “Bruce, I would like you to meet my best friend Tim Drake. He joined the chorus two years after I did.”

“A pleasure to finally meet you,” said Bruce as he shook hands with Tim.

“And your reputation certainly precedes you, Mr. Wayne,” said Tim, not entirely amicably.

Bruce politely inquired about Tim’s ballet training and his interests, and Tim only responded tersely while staring appraisingly at Bruce. It wasn’t until after quite a few more exchanges that Tim learned that Bruce, just like Dick, was also well versed with “the greatest tales of ratiocination” of Auguste Dupin. The knowledge alone seemed to have earned more credit for Bruce than anything else, and Tim whispered, “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” before running off.

Bruce seemed amused as they watched Tim disappear in the crowd. “Shall we dance?” he then asked, extending a hand to Dick.

“Of course. You lead?”

“If you’d like,” smiled Bruce. He guided Dick into the dance floor with a hand on the small of his back. They paused for a brief moment, considering where to place their hands, before Bruce took Dick’s right hand with his left and settled the other hand on Dick’s shoulder blade. Dick rested his left hand on Bruce’s waist, and then they took their first step together.

“Nice outfit,” Bruce murmured. “They bring out your eyes.”

“Thank you,” Dick could feel the ease with which they moved together, like a choreography that they had been rehearsing together for years. They waltzed widely across the room, and the music grew louder as they approached the full chamber orchestra. Dick leaned closer: “I have a confession to make.”

“What is it?”

“When I first arrived at the manor, before I found out that you had repurposed the ballroom, I thought you were some dance aficionado.”

“Did you?” Bruce’s expression was soft, almost doting.

“And I was imagining, back then, what it would be like to dance with you,” said Dick, his steps flowing and accommodating while Bruce moved in decisive strides.

“Was it like this?” asked Bruce, his eyes fixed on Dick.

“Not as good as this,” Dick took a sharp turn, just to surprise Bruce, who instantly followed without hesitation. They did a few more circles around the dance floor, suddenly changing direction or stepping aside to taunt one another, but never breaking synchrony. Dick felt desire rippling through him as Bruce’s hands tightened around his hand and back, as their bodies pressed closer and their thighs brushed against each other’s. He only hoped that his trousers weren’t too tight to be overly revealing.

“I’m glad our paths have crossed again, Dick,” said Bruce, his cheeks faintly flushed. Dick could feel the warmth and thin sheen of sweat on his own face as well. He looked into Bruce’s eyes, drinking in the wistful tenderness in them. All of a sudden, it was as if the entire ballroom had fallen in silence.

The entire ballroom, Dick soon realized, had indeed fallen in silence. A tall, faceless figure in a long black cloak was standing at the top of the grand staircase, chuckling with a cold cruelty that sent chills to the spine. It started to descend slowly, like vengeance, like the night, like the Grim Reaper proper without the scythe. Dick could feel Bruce tense up with him.

“Why so silent? Why so serious?” the man’s face was hidden under the wide hood, but his voice was familiar. “Smile, everyone! I have even brought a gift!”

Something exploded loudly from the ceiling, and Dick looked up as many guests ducked their heads and scattered in fear. Paper with writing on both sides—hundreds of pages of it—fluttered to the floor. Dick picked up a page. It was musical score, densely scribbled with librettos.

“Have you missed me? You didn’t think I’d leave you for good, did you?” the cloaked figure rubbed his hands in white gloves, now looking more human than otherworldly, but eerie nonetheless. “I have written you an opera! I call my humble masterpiece _The King’s Jester_.” He marched right in front of Cobblepot and flipped off his mask mockingly. Cobblepot gritted his teeth, his arms drooping on the sides, not daring to speak a word.

“Learn it! Rehearse it! Perform it!” demanded the figure. “I advise you to comply with all my instructions—remember, there are _far_ worse things than only one dead body…Hahahahahaha!” An explosion of sinister green smoke immediately followed his maniacal laughter, shrouding him entirely. When the cloud of smoke finally dispersed, he had already disappeared.

Dick turned to speak to Bruce, but Bruce was gone as well. He scanned the room while making his way through the uneasy crowd, and finally spotted Bruce whispering to Madame Cain behind a column. Bruce’s face looked unusually stern as he spoke, and Madame Cain nodded in agreement to whatever he was saying. Catching Dick staring, they ended the conversation at once. Madame Cain stepped back to blend into the group of guests behind her while Bruce began walking towards Dick.

“We have to do something, Bruce,” said Dick under the breath, frowning. “We can’t just sit back and let evil prevail!”

“I know,” said Bruce, his lips thinly pressed together.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters after this one!

“I can’t believe this! What has Gotham come to? Whoever this bastard is—the Phantom, the Bat, I don’t give a damn—he isn’t going to take over _my_ opera house!”

Dick could hear Cobblepot’s thunderous roar before Dinah, Valley, and he entered the office in a row. The conductor was already standing inside, bowing his head and shrinking even smaller than he already was. “But sir,” he said weakly, “you have heard him, too. If we don’t do as he says, he will—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Cobblepot banged the thick stack of manuscript against his desk, his belly wobbled as the conductor winced. The myriads of birds in the room were also frightened, shrieking and flapping their wings loudly against the cages. On the cover page of the manuscript, the lousy zigzags of the title, _The King’s Jester_ , was almost leering at them smugly.

“How bad is his work?” asked Dinah.

“See for yourselves!” Cobblepot shoved the manuscript across the table. The pages slid off into a sloping pile.

Dinah picked up the top few pages and her eyes widened at the list of cast: “Me as the King? Jean-Paul as the Jester? And Dick as the Jester’s _daughter_?”

“These aren’t even written for our proper ranges,” said Dick as he also took a thin stack from the pile and flipped through the pages. “I can’t sing soprano, neither can Dinah sing tenor.”

“I am to play a _clown_?” Having snatched the list of cast from Dinah, Valley’s face twisted with anger: “Is this what you called me back for, Cobblepot? So you can humiliate me in front of everybody?”

Cobblepot’s eyes narrowed at Valley’s words. “Here is my advice to you, Valley,” he leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands on the desk, his voice low, “Be cooperative if you still wish to find _any_ work in Gotham.”

Realizing the connotation of what Cobblepot had just said, Dick blurted out, incredulous: “Are we actually going to cave in and perform this work?”

“Have I any other choice? What would the public think of me if someone else were to die at Gotham Opera under my watch?” Cobblepot raised his voice again, his hands balling into fists. “But we won’t just do _everything_ according to his instructions—he needs to remember who is really in charge!” He stood up, pointing a fat finger at Dick: “Grayson, I want you to still sing the tenor role, and Lance to stay as soprano.”

“This whole affair is an outrage!” protested Valley as he paced in front of Dick. “I understand now. Richard Grayson! He’s the one behind all of this!”

“How dare you!” Dick couldn’t help but yelling back.

“I’m not a fool! You think I’m blind? You robbed me of my roles, seduced the leading patron, and now you’re getting the biggest part again in this production!”

“This isn’t my fault! I don’t want any part in this murderer’s plot!

“Shut up, all of you!” Cobblepot slammed his fists against the table. The poor birds burst into another round of startled frenzy. “Listen up: We will perform the work, but we shall also play _our_ game. This scoundrel is certain to attend the premiere, and, as I have already spoken with Mr. Wayne, we shall have the police armed and stationed at every door on every floor. When the curtain falls, the tide will turn!”

“And then what?” asked Tim, his legs crossed in the living room armchair and his eyes intense with concentration as he listened to Dick recounting the happenings at Cobblepot’s office.

“What what?” asked Dick.

“Did Valley say anything else?”

Dick smiled wryly: “Wasn’t it bad enough? But no, Cobblepot kicked all of us out of his office afterwards.” He lay down on the sofa and stretched his limbs. “I can already imagine all the sneers I will receive from Valley once the rehearsal starts,” he mumbled bitterly. “And who knows what else the Phantom plans to do next?”

“Are you sure the Phantom is that Napier person?” Tim looked contemplative with one hand cupping his chin.

“The laughter and the voice sounded just like him. The Bat thought so as well.”

“But even the Bat hasn’t managed to catch him, right?” said Tim. “Could the Phantom be Valley, for example? Maybe he was creating those ‘accidents’ to draw more attention to himself, but once he was replaced, the embarrassment angered him to kill for revenge.”

Dick sat up. “I may not like Valley as a person, but I don’t doubt his passion for opera. He wouldn’t do things like that to sully the art,” he answered.

Tim looked a bit deflated that Dick wasn’t buying his new theory. “Only you would think so kindly of everybody.”

“Well, I even became _your_ friend,” Dick smirked. Tim had always preferred reading and observing others to mingling with the crowd. Not many people—if any—besides Dick had moved past his walls.

Tim shrugged: “It’s not my fault that most people in the chorus are too boring and immature.”

“Speaking of,” said Dick, “do you have any plans tonight?”

“Not in particular. Why?”

“I’m thinking about a visit to our favorite pub. I need to unwind a little.”

After a couple of pints of beer and quite a few hours of time, it was already late when Dick and Tim finally left the warm and cozy taproom of Owls & Robins. Dick didn’t plan on spending this much time there, but Tim had been deep in conversation with a civil engineer named Connor. The young man, who had dark short hair and candid blue eyes, offered them both a drink when they took the only two empty seats next to him by the bar counter, and he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Tim for the rest of the evening.

“I’m sorry,” Tim wrapped his scarf more tightly around himself. “I meant to leave earlier, but I got carried away.”

Dick smiled: “I’m happy that you met someone you’re willing to talk to. If you wish to stay longer…”

“It’s okay. I’m ready to go.”

“You only said that because you have already exchanged addresses.”

Tim blushed visibly: “I thought you didn’t see—Well, Connor said he would write to me soon.”

“Will it be the kind of letter that I’ll get to read?”

“Come on, have you ever shown me your letters from Wayne?”

“Ah,” said Dick with feigned realization, “so you do like Connor _that_ way.”

Tim punched him in the back: “Stop teasing me!”

“It’s only fair game!”

They kept running and chasing each other down the street, laughing and panting despite the chilly night air slowly seeping through their wool scarfs and overcoats, when a flurry of snow suddenly drifted from the sky. “Let’s take the shortcut instead,” Dick suggested, and they took a right turn into a small alley. There was soon a thin layer of snow on the cobblestone pavement, and they quickened their pace. After a few twists and turns, they reemerged onto the boulevard lined with bare horse-chestnut trees and elegant fluted lampposts. At the end of the boulevard, the majestically standing opera house beckoned them.

Moving towards the opera house, Dick lowered his head against the wind blowing tiny snowflakes at his face. Ahead of them, he could see silhouettes of people and carriages in front of a white marble-clad building with ornate Corinthian columns—the famous Iceberg Lounge, another property owned by Cobblepot, who reportedly liked to conduct his more ‘discreet’ business meetings in its back rooms. They walked alongside the building to shun the small crowd by the street, where opulently dressed guests were ready to depart after a long night’s enjoyment and entertainment. Dick sneaked a peek as they passed the door.

And came to an abrupt stop when he did. Stepping out through the door, looking debonair in flattering evening attire with a smooth black cashmere overcoat slung over one arm, was nobody else but Bruce. His other arm wrapped intimately around a woman’s dainty waist proudly contoured by her tight-fitting coat with lush fur collar. Dick recognized the bright red lips and striking ginger waves under the French felt hat trimmed with feathers—Julie Madison, socialite and stage actress. Although Dick had stopped following reports on Bruce’s private life for a while—which, he was told, had actually come to mention _him_ quite regularly—he still remembered her as one of Bruce’s rumored romantic interests according to the papers.

“Mr. Wayne?” Tim yelped in surprise behind Dick.

Bruce also stopped in place upon seeing them. The easy smile on his face disappeared immediately. They weren’t even standing very close to each other, but Dick could already smell alcohol and cologne from him. Bruce whispered something to Madison and flinched almost unnoticeably when she left a kiss at the corner of his mouth, before she walked lightly past Dick and Tim towards the awaiting carriages.

“You asked me to trust you,” said Dick simply. The red lip print on Bruce looked so jarring that Dick wanted to laugh at the clichéd ridiculousness of the situation—and he had sometimes thought operas were too melodramatic.

“Dick…This—this isn’t me. I’m…” Bruce stammered, his face pale. He stepped forward, reaching out for Dick’s arm, but Dick recoiled: “I have no interest in being yet another conquest of yours, Bruce.” Dick’s body felt numb with shock, disappointment, and the cold. Even when Bruce looked crestfallen as he did now, he was still undoubtedly handsome, and it angered Dick further to think how many people Bruce had toyed with using his seemingly sincere confessions and vulnerable looks. Deciding he could no longer bear to continue the conversation, he grabbed Tim by the elbow and turned around, “Let’s go.”

Fortunately or even more sadly, Bruce didn’t follow after them. “I’m sorry,” the moment the building receded behind them, Tim said quietly. “He isn’t worthy of you.”

“And I used to think that I wasn’t worthy of him,” said Dick miserably, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes. He should have learned by now that life, merciless as it was, would never cease to take what he treasured from him. Just when he thought he had finally found himself in music and found the love of his heart, things were thrown into peril again in a matter of one day.

As they approached the opera house, the looming grandeur of the architecture felt almost suffocating to Dick. He slowed down his steps before finally coming to a complete stop. “I need to visit somewhere else,” he said.

Tim turned to look at him: “Do you want me to come along with you?”

“No,” Dick said, trying his best to muster a mollifying smile. “I’d like to be on my own.”

There wasn’t any pedestrian or carriage in the direction where Dick was going. The wind had weakened but the snow had grown heavier. Large pieces of snowflakes fell silently onto the ground, accumulating into a thick, spotless carpet. Dick treaded through the snow, leaving a lone trail of footprints behind him. For the first time during this long day, he felt peaceful, like a pious pilgrim on his way to salvation.

The walk was long, and when Dick finally arrived before the closed double gates, he couldn’t even feel cold anymore. Gotham City Cemetery. He used to come here when he felt like celebrating, like when he was admitted as a ballet boy or when he first performed with the chorus, or when he felt really lost, like tonight. He climbed onto the gates with practiced ease, vaulted over the spears on top, and hopped down to the ground with a roll. He dusted off the snow on his knees and his back, and then continued his way.

Past rows of crosses and tombstones, Dick reached a simple but solemn mausoleum. _Mary and John Grayson_ , said the carving, evoking a dull ache in Dick’s chest as unfailingly as always. He cleared the snow on the steps and shook off the snow in his hair to sit down, the mausoleum’s narrow roof shielding him from the snowfall. He rested his head against one of the Doric columns, remembering, with painful gratitude, that it was Bruce who funded his parents’ grave. Dick had loved Bruce, back then, with all the admiration and budding desire a thirteen-year-old boy could possibly have in his awakening heart, and he still loved him, more tenderly and passionately so, before reality shattered his illusions tonight once again.

“Mother, father…I wish you were somehow here again,” Dick sighed. “I wish you were here, so you could tell me what to do, tell me how stupid I’ve been. For how could someone have changed so much? How could someone so brave, noble, and generous have become so shallow, indulgent, and deceitful? I have tried to turn a blind eye. I have tried to forgive. But I can’t.” _I can’t love a beautiful shell when brilliance has faded into mediocrity, when lofty goals have been consumed by worldly pleasures, when the man I love no longer holds the same sense of moral justice as I do._

“Why can’t the past just die?” he yelled into the snow. It quickly buried his words without giving him any answer. Dick closed his eyes, tears almost freezing halfway as they rolled down his face. He was so cold, and so tired.

When a gloved hand gently caressed his hair, and then wiped at his face, it felt so much like a dream that Dick didn’t dare opening his eyes immediately. Was it his parents’ spirit, coming to guide him at last? But he could sense the subtle shift of light and shadow through his eyelids, and the touch was real as he overlaid the hand with his own. He opened his eyes and saw the Bat bending over him, his usual, unrelentingly black outfit lined with white snow.

“My little bird…” said the Bat gravelly. Before the man could say anything else, Dick came to his feet, put his arms around his neck, and pulled him into a tight hug like a drowning man clutching at a straw. The Bat stiffened at the sudden contact, and Dick could feel his arms moving slightly as if about to extricate himself.

“Please don’t go,” Dick pleaded, and the Bat remained still like a statue at his words. Dick could feel the Bat’s heartbeat through the armored layers, and the rhythmic sound made his mentor more real and human than ever. Slowly and hesitantly, the Bat put his hands on Dick’s back, drawing him closer and wrapping his black cape around them both.

“You’re warm,” said Dick.

“You’re too cold,” responded the Bat.

For a brief second, Dick smelled Bruce’s cologne again—was it so strong that it had gotten on him? He tightened his arms around the Bat, sinking more deeply into the dark cocoon. He needed to stop thinking about Bruce, as he should have done a long time ago. He was safe here, safe in the arms of the man who was like a father, a teacher, and a friend all at once.

They stood there for a while, letting the snow fall upon them quietly. “Isn’t it lonely, to be fighting on your own?” Dick murmured into the man’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t you wish you had a partner?”

“I lead a perilous life,” said the Bat, his voice distant. “It isn’t something to be desired, and certainly not something to wish upon others.”

Dick lifted his head and withdrew from their embrace, the cape slipping off from him. He stared at the Bat, his hands firm on the vigilante’s shoulders, “I’m not afraid. I have skills that could be useful. If you can train me in voice, you can train me in the other things you do.”

“Let’s not talk about this now,” the Bat also pulled back as he removed Dick’s hands. “I came here to make sure you’re safe. You should go back.”

“But I want to talk about this,” Dick insisted. The Bat was already turning around, wanting to walk away, but Dick grabbed him by his gauntlet. The Bat resisted, but Dick could be just as strong and stubborn when he wanted to. “Who knows when will be the next time I see you again? I’m so tired of sitting around and not doing anything when danger is right around the corner. I want to help. I want to end all of it!”

The silent tug of war between them persisted until, to Dick’s surprise, the Bat finally relented. The momentum brought him a step closer to Dick, who still hadn’t let go of the gauntlet. “You are helping, little bird, if you keep singing,” said the Bat softly, almost enticingly. “I have a plan. Trust me, it will all be over very soon.” He leaned forward, and, before Dick could react, left a ghost of a kiss in his hair.

Dick didn’t even bother following the Bat when he actually left this time, knowing even if he did, the Bat would have already disappeared in the dark anyways. The wind had picked up again, its low howling echoed with the blood in his ears. He carded his fingers through his frosted hair. The ephemeral touch just now had left his scalp tingling. He still knew very little about the Bat, and yet he was naturally drawn to his calming presence, fascinated by his cool pragmatism and confident sureness.

Dick felt unfaithful at the realization, but he then remembered that, after Bruce’s betrayal, it didn’t matter anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

The controversy around _The King’s Jester_ only seemed to have increased its popularity. When the premiere night finally arrived in February, it was brimming with exuberant guests filling up every red velvet seat in the auditorium. Despite the armed policemen standing by every exit door, the audience’s spirit was high after a series of jaw-dropping magic tricks during the preshow. The new hire, Zatanna Zatara, was wearing a shiny top hat and tuxedo like a man would. With a flick of her wand, a plaster statue of a horse that she had covered under a sheet became alive upon revelation. She hopped on the white horse, kicked it into a light trot, and exited the stage. The audience was applauding and whistling with such enthusiasm that she had to come out and bow three times. By all means, it looked like a wonderful evening was just beginning at Gotham Opera.

But Dick could see the tension and anxiety among those in the know. He remained mindful of his surroundings as he began singing, looking for any abnormities on or off-stage. Suspiciously, the first two acts went without a hitch. It felt too much like the calm before the storm, and Dick’s hair stood at the anticipation of danger.

“Be careful out there,” Dick whispered before Dinah was about to enter the middle of the stage through a large prop door for Act Three.

“I certainly will,” Dinah responded with a smile, but her eyes were unsmiling.

Gilda, the Jester’s daughter, emerged from a palatial door flanked by full-length portraits of the King and his wife. Her dress was already gone, and she was only wearing a thin white linen chemise. Her cheeks were flushed and her long blond hair disheveled—she looked completely debauched. _O Heaven, give me courage!_ She sang as she walked dreamily. _Each holy day, in church, as I prayed to God, a fatally handsome young man stood where I could see him...Though our lips were silent, our hearts spoke through our eyes._

Having been looking for her everywhere, the Jester hurried to her side, and she sang to him as if still in a trance. _Furtively, only last night he came to meet me for the first time. “I am a student and poor,” he said so tenderly, and with passionate fervor told me of his love. He left...My heart was rapt in the sweetest dreams, when suddenly the men broke in and carried me away; they brought me here by force, cruelly afraid._ She trembled as she threw herself into her father’s arms, and the Jester cried out indignantly: _But he is no student, but the king! Poor woman’s heart! You shall be avenged, o Gilda_. In stark contrast to his brightly colored clothes and merry looking cap and bells, the Jester’s face was distorted with rage.

Hearing sound from behind the door, Gilda and the Jester quickly hid behind the exotic Chinese folding screen. The King sauntered into the room, humming in satisfaction after his passionate conquest. His extravagant gold satin doublet and breeches bore obvious evidence to his status, and the wide scalloped collar and the lace turned down over his boot-tops were paradigmatic of the fashion of the time.

 _Women are as fickle as feathers in the wind, simple in speech, and simple in mind_ , the King sang smugly as Dick shot another glance at the royal box. The box had remained conspicuously empty with only Oliver Queen sitting alone. Dick shouldn’t be surprised that Bruce wasn’t there, as they hadn’t been in contact at all since their unexpected encounter at Iceberg Lounge. It hurt nonetheless to know that Bruce didn’t even have the guts to face Dick again after Dick had seen through his pretense. Bruce probably had many other willing companions eager to occupy his evening, and it would just be a convenient happenstance that he could skip the potentially treacherous opera performance featuring merely an old flame.

 _If you rely on her, you will regret it, and if you trust her, you are undone! Yet none can call himself fully contented, who has not tasted love in her arms!_ Dick ended the King’s aria effortlessly on a high note. He could almost taste the bitter irony in his mouth as he smiled and bowed to the already applauding audience.

Having overheard the King’s arrogant boast, Gilda covered her face with both hands, heartbroken: _He betrayed me, yet I love him; great God, I ask for pity on this faithless man!_

 _You are now convinced he was lying._ The Jester smoothed her hair in a consoling manner. _Hush, and leave it up to me to hasten our revenge. It will be quick. It will be deadly. I know how to deal with him!_ He roared as he unsheathed the dagger in his belt and jumped out from behind the screen, marching towards the King with fury.

The King was taken aback by the intruder, his mouth gaping in surprise. Dick took a few steps back as Valley inched closer than he should, and then moved further to the side when he attempted to close their distance. They had never rehearsed this.

“What are you _doing_?” Dick demanded under his breath.

“I hate to have to cut the fun short, but you messed up my cast, and the joke is wearing thin…” the Jester answered loudly. Dick suddenly realized that, behind the cosmetics of heavy white foundation and bright red lipstick, it was no longer the face of Valley, but Napier, or whatever the man’s real name might be. Napier took advantage of Dick’s moment of surprise and rushed towards him with the dagger held high in his hand. It was gleaming with sharpness.

“Dick!” Dinah screamed the moment Napier also yelped in pain. He dropped the dagger on the floor with a clang. A small bat-shaped blade had cut into the back of his hand. He pulled it out with a hiss and threw it on the floor as well.

“Enough is enough! Get that joker!” Cobblepot’s voice sounded angrily from a box on the left. Jim Gordon, who was now the commissioner, immediately blew his whistle and ordered: “Secure the doors and catch him!”

“Get off the stage, Dinah!” Dick shouted as he tried to get hold of Napier, who was running around the stage and giggling at the sight of police officers closing in from all directions. When the police had encircled the stage, Napier dug out a few small juggling balls from his pocket and began throwing them one after another. The balls immediately exploded with thick green smoke that paralyzed the police as they burst into unstoppable laughter.

“Look at yourselves!” Napier shrieked with screeching laughter. “The joke is on all of you! Hahahahaha!”

Covering his nose, Dick quickly backed off and evacuated backstage through the prop door. Just before the door closed, he saw the giant shadow of the Bat gliding towards them from the upper tiers of the auditorium. “It’s the fucking Bat! Get him too!” Dick heard Cobblepot’s muffled voice.

“Don’t you dare,” muttered Dick as he ran towards the side entrance of the stage, ready to get back to the center of the action. He could see that Bat had already cornered Napier on the other side of the stage, when someone yelled from behind him: “Watch out! The horse is loose!”

Dick dodged almost instinctively and a white horse brushed past him in a blur of speed. It looked clearly frightened, squealing and rearing as stagehands hurried to surround it. One man was getting hold of the reins while the others attempted to calm it. The commotion alerted the Bat, but just as he turned his head, Napier brought out a Punjab lasso. Before Dick could even make a sound, Napier caught the Bat’s neck with the noose and immediately pulled the rope tightly enough to kill. The Bat reacted quickly enough to grab the rope with both of his hands, but Dick could see that air was escaping him as he struggled.

“He’s going to kill the Bat!” Dick heard a pained exclamation from the audience as he sprinted through the backstage to the other side entrance. _Hold on_ , he prayed silently, _please hold on. I can’t lose you also_. He didn’t have time to dwell on his relief when he reached the other side and saw that the lunatic was too busy still trying to finish the vigilante to watch behind his back. Dick spun with all the force he could muster, swung up his right leg as if doing an arabesque, and landed a high kick squarely on Napier’s head. Instantly, Napier crumpled to the floor along with the Bat.

“Are you alright?” Dick pried Napier’s unconscious body off the Bat, removed the lasso, and half-kneeled by the man, who was already sitting up albeit coughing heavily.

“I’m fine,” croaked the Bat. Dick wrapped the man’s arm around his own shoulders and helped him stand up.

The police, having now recovered from Napier’s laughing gas, finally hastened on stage and tied him up securely. Napier regained consciousness when they finished the knots, and despite his swollen head and dizzied expression, he was still laughing: “I’ve planted three bombs where the sewers meet, hahahahaha…the fuses are burning as we speak—Boom! You’ll all blow up into some pretty red confetti!”

Napier’s voice trailed off as the police escorted him away. Dick and the Bat exchanged a look. The vigilante turned to the rest of the officers, who seemed uncertain whether they should close in and capture the Bat as well: “Tell Gordon I’ll take care of the bombs.” He then said to Dick, “Follow me.”

As soon as they returned backstage, Tim came up to them, “You’ll need a third person to go with you.”

The Bat didn’t object, so Dick asked: “How do we locate the bombs?”

“The sewers had three major intersections underneath the opera house: Northeast, southeast, and southwest,” answered the Bat, his voice still hoarse. “Do you know the way down there?”

“I do,” said Tim. “Northeast and southeast are closer. Dick and I can handle those two.”

The Bat nodded, “Very good.”

They quickly found their way to the basement of the opera house and then ventured even lower into the sewers. From there, they parted ways, with Dick and Tim running east and the Bat heading west.

“How do you even know the sewer system so well?” Dick couldn’t help asking as their urgent steps splashed in puddles.

“You’re not the only one staying up late at night,” answered Tim, his eyes glinting with excitement. Before long, they came to a stop in front of a split path. “I’ll take the right, and the left leads to the southeast. See you back here?”

“Sounds good to me.”

It didn’t occur to Dick that they had set out on a fairly deadly mission until after he found the large barrel of gunpowder and extinguished the burning fuse that only had a couple of inches left. He cracked the wooden barrel against the wall and pushed it into the cold running water, watching it soaking up before sinking down. The sound of water resonated steadily in the arched tunnel, and the silence otherwise felt more reassuring than anything else.

Dick had waited hardly a minute when Tim joined him at their meeting point. They returned the way they came, climbing up to the basement and sneaking back to the backstage. The chaos had largely died down in the auditorium, and the Bat was nowhere to be seen.

“Looks like he’s already gone,” said Dick as he walked into his dressing room with Tim. They both slumped into the sofa, taking deep breaths as the realization of what could have happened was sinking in.

“We’ll see him again. I already know who he is,” said Tim.

Dick’s heart skipped a beat. “Who is he?”

“Your lover.”

“God, Tim,” Dick rolled his eyes, “now isn’t the time for jokes, and it’s not even funny!”

“I mean, seriously, he’s Bruce Wayne.”

“What? How?” Dick sat up straight, but immediately, as memories of past conversations, events, and even _smells_ flashed through his mind, he realized that his questions were redundant.

“The Bat appeared not long after Wayne’s return to Gotham,” explained Tim. “Plus, this level of vigilantism is obviously costly. They also have very similar heights, similar builds…Do I still need to go on?”

“No,” said Dick. It made sense, the more Dick thought back on how Bruce and the Bat never appeared simultaneously, how they always looked like they were holding back from saying more, and, most importantly, how the Bat felt more like the Bruce in his memory than the current Bruce. How could Tim notice before he did? All the clues had been right in front of Dick’s eyes, but maybe he just didn’t want to see them. He should have guessed, but he never thought—he couldn’t believe—that anybody could manage, let alone tolerate, such an excruciatingly divisive life.

As if on cue, Bruce burst in without a knock: “Dick! I just heard the news—are you okay?” Seeing that Tim was also in the room, he paused for a second, “We’ve met before. You’re—”

“Tim Drake,” Tim interrupted Bruce as he stood up from the sofa. “Good to see you _again_ today, Mr. Wayne, and perhaps you two should speak in private instead.” Before Bruce could respond, he walked out of the room and slammed the door close behind him.

The room instantly fell silent upon Tim’s departure. Dick and Bruce stared at each other, both wordless, before Dick looked away and stood up as well. He went to the door, feeling strangely calm after the initial shock and disbelief. Just as he lifted his arm, his hand not even near the handle, Bruce caught his forearm: “Dick, listen, about last time…”

But Dick only latched the door with a click. “Not now, Bruce,” he said flatly, withdrawing his arm from Bruce’s grip. He turned and gestured towards the armchair in front of the dressing table, “Come and sit down.”

Bruce obeyed, but he rotated the armchair at an angle as his sat down, so he was facing Dick instead. He looked guarded as his gaze closely followed Dick, who was reaching for a black cravat from the clothing rack. Purposefully taking his time, Dick straightened the long piece of silk, held it at both ends, and walked over to bring it to Bruce’s eye level.

“Don’t move.”

There was a flash of realization in Bruce’s eyes before Dick covered them with the cravat. Bruce’s breath quickened, but he stayed tensely still. Dick was almost hugging Bruce as he wrapped the cravat loosely around his head, standing close enough to feel Bruce’s body heat and the feathery touch of his breaths. They probably looked intimate this way, but there was nothing romantic about it to Dick. He could see his own fingers trembling slightly as he fastened the ends together, his heart pounding hard and fast, every beat an increasingly urgent plea and warning: _Stop it. You don’t want to find out. Stop it, before it is too late._

Yet it was already too late. The piece of black cloth was just wide enough to cover Bruce’s face from his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose, and Dick was only too familiar with the mouth and the chin now looking incongruously exposed. Bruce remained silent as if waiting for his judgment. _How could I not have noticed?_ Dick asked himself again, chagrined. When he dropped his gaze lower, he glimpsed at the skin hidden behind Bruce’s shirt collar. Even such high collar couldn’t cover all of the strangle marks on Bruce’s neck, the undeniable evidence for a final confirmation.

Slowly, Dick’s hand hovered close to the ghastly bruises. This man in front of him had been _everyone_ he had ever loved. This crazy, impossible man, who had waged war on crime and corruption in Gotham with his own vulnerable flesh, who had also deceived, played, and betrayed him in more ways than one. Before Dick’s fingertips barely reached the purpling skin, by chance or by instinct, Bruce shifted slightly in the armchair. Snapping out of his thoughts, Dick immediately pulled back his hand, tender pity now morphing into frustration and anger. A thousand words—questions and accusations—swam in his mind.

“You’re so full of lies, Bruce,” said Dick.

Bruce opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but aborted the attempt when Dick yanked the blindfold off his face with more force than necessary. Their eyes met again, blue to blue, this time with a new tacit understanding.

“Is this why you wouldn’t wear a mask at the masquerade? Because I would’ve recognized you right away?”

“Dick—”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” said Dick, keeping his voice as low as he still could. He wanted to grab Bruce by his shirt collar, to shout every grievance to his face, and to shake every truth out of him, but a sensible— _weak_ —part of Dick was still too concerned about risking exposing the Bat on Cobblepot’s property. “Is anything real at all? Or is everything just pretense, just your usual subterfuge? Did you have fun, playing me like a fool between your personas?”

“You know who I am,” Bruce answered, averting his gaze and turning to look into the mirror on the dressing table. His expression was blank in the reflection. “Everything else is just smoke and mirrors.”

“And it just so happens that your smoke and mirrors are such pleasurable pursuits,” Dick snapped, not without sarcasm. Bruce always spoke as if the mere month Dick had spent with him at the manor bore sufficient and true witness to the person that he really was. But with so many years having passed, and so many things having happened between them recently, how could Dick still trust him at face value? Wouldn’t there be at least a grain of truth behind every lie, a piece of real character in every disguise?

“Dick...” said Bruce heavily, close to a sigh. “You have no idea how much it pains me, to put my name on that shallow and vain facade, and to keep what I really do—who I really am—beneath the surface.”

Dick frowned: “Then why? Is it even necessary? If you really care about justice so much, why wouldn’t you just step up and use your wealth and influence?”

“It’s more complicated than that. The scums of Gotham—they’ve been around too long to be intimidated by some well-wishing rich boy,” Bruce gritted his teeth. “I had to become a myth, an abstract symbol of fear, and in doing so I’ve already made myself too many enemies,” he looked up to Dick, his hands balling into fists, “I am prepared for the risks, but I can’t let them harm the people I love. They shall never link the Bat to me. As long as I stay as the Bat, I will have to sacrifice Bruce Wayne as the exact opposite.”

“And just how long were you planning on keeping up your appearances in front of me? Was it a test to see how long it would take for me to finally figure you out? Am I so unworthy of your trust?”

“It’s nothing of the sort. I’ve wanted to tell you—”

“Of course,” Dick huffed. “Have you ever willingly told _anyone_ of your secret?”

“Only two people,” admitted Bruce.

Dick actually laughed out loud: “Two already? What a surprise! Mind if I ask who they are?”

“My butler Alfred Pennyworth, whom you have met years ago. And Cassandra Cain.”

“Madame Cain?” Dick’s eyes widened.

Bruce nodded: “She’s a close friend of my late mother’s, and she sometimes helps me with information after I became the Bat. She was the one who asked me to investigate the accidents at Gotham Opera.”

“So…does it mean she already knew about me when I auditioned for the chorus?” Suddenly, Dick felt like a small fly trapped on an endless spider web: Every aspect of his life seemed to have had Bruce’s involvement, and every choice he had made seemed to only be an inevitable result of Bruce’s plan.

“No, but she told me about you when I went to see her before I left Gotham. I asked her to take good care of you, and that was all,” Bruce explained, as if having seen through Dick’s fear. “I thought I should check on you after all these years when I started my stakeout at the opera, and then…”

“And then?”

“I saw someone special, someone with so much talent, courage, and compassion.”

“Someone who still isn’t deserving of your trust,” Dick quipped back.

Bruce almost winced a little. “I was only trying to protect you.”

“Oh, really?” Dick finally couldn’t help but raising his voice. “If I remember correctly, I am even capable of saving _you_ , Bruce. Were you trying to protect me, or were you just protecting yourself?”

Bruce wiped at his face with both hands, his face weary and vulnerable for a moment. “Your proximity to me, your knowledge of who I am…They will only become a growing burden, and I’d hate to see you get hurt for it,” he said quietly.

“And yet you have allowed the proximity. And you have already hurt me,” said Dick levelly. He was also getting tired. There had been too many revelations in such concentration that he felt dizzy in a way he never had, not even when he first learned somersaults. “I kind of wish you and the Bat were different people, you know? I thought my decisions were mine. I thought I could move on. I thought I was my own person, and now what? It turns out that it’s been you all along. Am I supposed to finally declare my complete and undying love of you?” Dick shook his head with a bitter smile, “I can never escape your grasp, can I?”

Bruce looked pained. “You have every right to be angry at me, but I didn’t plan on any of this…not on running into you again. And certainly not on falling in love,” he took Dick’s hand, and Dick didn’t pull it back this time. “You asked me before, whether it was lonely to be the Bat. Whether I wish I had a partner. The honest answer is yes, to both.” Bruce looked down, brushing his thumb over Dick’s knuckles. He swallowed hard before continuing: “I had once decided the mission would be my own crusade, but then I met you again. You reminded me of what I had been missing, and you gave me hope, as much a dangerous luxury as it was for me.”

“Bruce…”

“I don’t expect your forgiveness, Dick, neither can I stop doing what I do. I will be anything Gotham needs me to be, but know my heart stays true to you,” Bruce finally looked straight into Dick’s eyes again, his eyes still shining with the same kind of unwavering determination and transparent earnestness as many years ago, but there was now also a thin veil of sorrow and resignation, “and if, against all odds, you would still consider being my partner, one way or another, I…” he trailed off, his throat working, “I would very much like to have you by my side.”

Dick found himself speechless at the confession. For the first time, perhaps ever since he had known Bruce, he finally felt that he was beginning to really understand the man, but he didn’t know if he could bring himself to agree with him, or even more, to forgive him. Dick clasped both hands around Bruce’s, mapping the hardened bones and rough callouses, the proof of ruthless training and fighting usually hidden under the Bat’s gauntlets or Bruce Wayne’s elegant gloves. Dick had never felt so conflicted. Never had the boundaries between truths, lies, and excuses been so blurred in his perception, nor had anyone else evoked this much love, doubt, and anguish in him simultaneously.

“I appreciate it, Bruce. I really do,” Dick finally managed to say. “But I can’t give you an answer right now. I’m going to need some time.”

“I understand. When—” Bruce then corrected himself, “— _if_ you ever feel ready, I’ll be waiting for you.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can, put [this piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20Gb0JcviRA) on loop for this chapter 🎵🎵🎵

It was a peaceful morning in early April. The horse-chestnut trees along the boulevard were putting out new leaves like wisps of green cloud hanging between sprawling branches. Dick handed his only suitcase to the cabbie, ready to board the carriage. He had kept the habit of living simply since his traveling days with the circus, and now he was about to be on the road again. It wasn’t going to be the longest journey for him, but it would perhaps be the most significant yet.

“Dick! Wait!”

One foot already stepping onto the carriage, Dick turned his head. Recognizing the person running towards him from the opera house, he walked to meet him instead. “Tim? Aren’t you supposed to be rehearsing right now?”

“I snuck out,” Tim’s chest was heaving as he stopped in front of Dick. “Don’t worry! It’s break time anyways.” He looked past Dick’s shoulder at the carriage and frowned slightly: “Are you really sure about this? It’s a big step, you know.”

“I still have more questions than answers,” Dick smiled, “but I think I’m ready to take the leap.”

*

Dick didn’t hear from Bruce or the Bat after their conversation in the dressing room, nor did he reach out to Bruce. He meant it when he said he wanted some time to think, and he was actually grateful that Bruce had respected his need for space. Bruce meanwhile seemed to have further devoted himself to his nightly activities with unreserved vigor. The Bat kept greeting the headlines as he re-captured convicts from a massive jailbreak. Reading papers with the knowledge that the Bat was Bruce now provided a novel and intriguing perspective, for society news on Bruce Wayne, whether about his latest art acquisition at an auction or his appearance at a polo match with another heiress, never failed to perfectly establish his utter irrelevance to the vigilante.

Dick, on the other hand, was equally occupied. _The King’s Jester_ became a true talk of the town after the arrest of Napier, whose real name remained unknown that people now referred to him as “the Joker” instead. Cobblepot was only too glad to prolong the run of the production to accommodate the curious public. In between frequent performances, Dick maintained regular ballet and voice training on his own. Unlike before, however, when he often turned down social invitations in order to meet with Bruce or have lessons with the Bat, he now said yes to every dinner parties and salons in addition to visits to the pub. He had met some interesting men and women, shared conversations on various intellectual levels, and, occasionally, enjoyed flirting with men who were evidently more than friendly.

Dick relished his newfound autonomy. He was free to do anything he wanted. It was exactly how his life should have been, without the complications with Bruce and the Bat. And yet, he saw Bruce in every blue-eyed, dark-haired man he came upon. He couldn’t help but compare mentally, how Bruce’s voice was just a pitch lower, his eyes were so much sharper, the tip of his nose was more defined, or the curve of his lips was a different angle. He kept seeing Bruce in others, but none of them was Bruce. None of them could compare.

In the end, despite his hopeless denial, Dick had to admit that he missed Bruce, and that, however willing or reluctant he was, Bruce had already shaped him and taken root in his life more than he had imagined. But Dick wasn’t ready to admit defeat, wasn’t ready to surrender as such. He knew Bruce’s confession, honest and heartfelt as it was, was no less than an ultimatum: It was clear that the man wouldn’t change his belief or his way of life for Dick, and the invitation to join him was only a non-negotiable offer.

So Dick waited. He kept exploring what it meant to live his own life as he continued following the news about Bruce and the Bat. He didn’t know if he could find the answer, or if there was an answer at all. The days rolled on, until one morning, a pair of stories, unconnected to any unknowing readers, caught his eyes. The Bat succeeded in delivering an escaped felon nicknamed Bane and several of Bane’s accomplices back to prison, finally putting an end to the breakout. Many pages after, hidden in a small column, Bruce Wayne reportedly fell from a horse and suffered a serious back injury.

Dick could feel his blood run cold as the printed words registered in his mind. He took a deep breath, mentally persuading himself that what he read might not be true at all. It could just be Bruce’s excuse to disappear for a short while to work on a case. It wasn’t unlike him to do so. But as night fell, as Dick kept turning in bed, the imagery of lifeless bodies and pooling blood overwhelmed him again. He curled up and buried his head under the pillow, but to no avail. These images hadn’t bothered him for years.

Grunting in frustration, Dick sat up, grabbed a pen from the desk, and began writing—not to Bruce, not yet, but to Alfred. He paused after finishing just the name, the tip of his pen hovering over the smooth paper. He hadn’t been in touch with the butler at all, not even since he reunited with Bruce. Did Alfred even know about what had been going on between Dick and Bruce? Would it be rude to suddenly contact him after so many years of silence? But Dick couldn’t afford to worry about propriety now. After some thought, he wrote simply, and almost cryptically: _How is he?_

He sent out the letter the first thing in the morning, but didn’t receive a response until after two agonizingly long days. _The doctors almost gave him up at first,_ Alfred wrote back in an elegant but slightly shaky hand, _but he is recovering steadily now_. _We have declined all visitors, but your presence here would always be most welcome._

Dick stared at the letter and swallowed. It seemed so petty and childish of him in comparison, to have been absorbed with self-pity and rebellious for the sake of it, when Bruce had been continuously putting his life on the line. How could he claim that he cared about justice, when he was the one wasting time on trivial pursuits, ironically, like what he once accused Bruce of? How could he leave the man he loved fighting and hurting alone, just for his own nominal independence?

Finally, Dick decided that he couldn’t—shouldn’t—wait anymore. He instantly went knocking on the door of Cobblepot’s office, notifying him that he intended to leave after finishing the scheduled run of _The King’s Jester_.

Cobblepot scowled as he counted the days on the calendar, “That’s…what, in less than a week?”

“Yes,” said Dick. “I would’ve liked to leave even earlier, but I understand that I should fulfill my obligations.”

“How dare you talk about obligations, Grayson?” Cobblepot pointed a fat finger at Dick’s face, his own face beginning to redden. “What about the next show? Where am I going to find the tenor?”

“I’m sure Valley will be capable and willing to fill the role,” answered Dick.

Cobblepot’s eyes bulged: “What is it with you artists? Coming and going on a whim—always so changeable, emotional, and egoistic! Do you even know what you’re giving up?”

“Yes, I do.”

“The stage won’t wait. And I don’t like second chances.”

“I understand.”

“Fine. Leave then! Soon enough you’ll be begging me to come back like Valley!”

The final days passed too slowly for Dick to go find Bruce, but too quickly for him to part with everybody and everything at the opera. Words spread swiftly that Richard Grayson would soon take an indefinite leave from Gotham Opera, and the last few performances were packed to the point that management had to add extra standing room in the back of the auditorium. The audience was already in standing ovation after the King’s aria on the last night, and when Dick bowed for the countless time during curtain call, his eyes were filled with tears. _Goodbye, for now, to the life on stage, to the lights and costumes, to the place where realities were transported into dreams._ Awaiting him ahead, perhaps, was a new and different world of make-believe, of shadow and secrecy, of true justice withheld and delivered with his own hands.

*

Dick didn’t expect Tim to come see him off. He had already bid farewell to everyone and was planning to leave quietly. He hadn’t explained his reason for departure to anyone else but Tim, only saying that he wanted some time off after a busy year. Dinah gave him a tight hug. Some younger boys and girls of the chorus even shed tears. Madame Cain only regarded him knowingly and said, “Good luck.”

“It’s going to be awfully lonely here without you,” Tim muttered.

“This is not goodbye forever,” Dick patted him on the back. “Also, you have Connor now.”

Tim finally smiled a little as his face crimsoned. Connor had been coming to find him almost every night, waiting patiently by the backstage door when Tim had a performance, but it still flustered Tim to even mention Connor’s name. “It’s not the same. Remember to come back and visit.”

“I certainly will. And you should come visit me as well.”

Tim stepped forward and pulled Dick into a hug, “You’ll always be my brother, Dick.”

“And you mine,” Dick wrapped his arms around the smaller boy.

When Dick set out on his journey in the carriage, his heart picked up the pace along with the jogging horses. Dense stone and brick buildings became increasingly scattered and finally completely replaced with verdant hills and forests. The air in early spring was crisp, fragrant, and full of promise. When the carriage came to a halt in front of the wrought iron gates, Dick was prepared to explain the reason for his visit to the gatekeeper, but he was let in without question. Centuries-old oak trees on both sides greeted him with their wide spreading branches. Cherry, apricot, and dogwood bloomed in beautiful shades of pink and white.

Dick thanked and paid the cabbie after he stepped onto the familiar circular driveway. As the clip-clop of the hooves faded away behind him, he was now standing alone in front of the intricate grey and yellow stone façade of the ever-stately Wayne manor, his suitcase by his feet.

Dick stood in place for a moment, taking in the déjà vu and working up his courage. Once going in through the heavy door ahead, he would soon be able see Bruce, and the thought was both comforting and unnerving. He wanted to check on Bruce’s condition with his own eyes, but he didn’t know what would happen afterwards, what they would say to each other. Should he offer to stay, or should he wait for Bruce to ask him? Was it too rash, to already bring everything with him to the manor, as if past the point of no return?

He lifted up his suitcase and proceeded, but hesitated again at the doorstep, his hand resting on the ornate doorknocker. _This is what you want, Dick. Don’t be afraid._ Taking a deep breath, he finally knocked loudly on the door.

Soon enough, the door opened a slit and then widely in front of him. Alfred stood there with a smile, dressed in creaseless black and white as always. He had heavy dark circles under his eyes, but otherwise he seemed hardly changed after almost seven years. “Welcome back, Master Dick,” he said warmly, not a bit surprised by Dick’s unannounced visit. At once, he made Dick feel like he was just returning home after a long, winding trip.

Alfred stepped back to let him in and offered to take his suitcase. “Would you mind waiting in the drawing room? I will let him know that you are here.”

Dick assured Alfred that he still remembered where the drawing room was, so Alfred could spare the walk with him and go straight upstairs. He should expect before he entered the drawing room, however, that since Bruce was now living here full-time, the furniture pieces would no longer be covered with sheets as they once were. The room looked much busier and more colorful than before, but Dick’s gaze went directly to the grand piano in polished walnut and the gilded chaise longue next to it

Dick sat on the silk cushion of the chaise, recalling with sudden clarity Bruce’s graceful fingers on the keyboard and the unforgettably emotive music that he played back then—Brahms’s _Intermezzo_ , Dick now knew. He leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing that golden afternoon, when Bruce seemed so close to him and yet too far to reach. The chaise now felt lower and smaller than in his memory. The boy had grown up. Both he and Bruce had become much more than who they were before. And here he was, back to the place where it all started, completing an invisible cycle.

Dick opened his eyes and stood up when Alfred came to invite him to the master’s suite. He followed Alfred upstairs. The butler knocked on Bruce’s door and pushed it open before turning and whispering to Dick not so quietly: “Master Bruce still isn’t allowed to sit up. Could you try not to excite him? Better if you would help me watch him while you are here—as you can imagine, he has been quite a difficult patient.”

“You know I can hear you, Alfred,” said a voice from inside the room, weak but unmistakably Bruce.

“That is my intention indeed,” responded Alfred.

Dick chuckled as he went in. The door closed behind him. The curtains were still drawn close in the bedroom. It was so dim that it took Dick some time to adjust his eyes and make out everything. Bruce was lying still and flat in bed, a blanket covering his torso, pillows of various sizes and thicknesses underneath his head, shoulders, and knees.

“Good morning, Dick. Or is it good afternoon? It’s so dark in here. I think I’m losing track of time.”

“Good morning, Bruce,” said Dick, opening the curtains to let in some sunshine. He squinted as light poured in. The room instantly brightened up. “How are you feeling?”

“Trapped and bored,” Bruce answered blandly, his voice still distant as he spoke to the ceiling. “I want to say I’m glad to see you, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you at all unless you come close enough.”

Dick chuckled again. He had never seen Bruce this petulant before, and the way he griped was surprisingly endearing. In a few strides, Dick was already standing by the bed, overlooking Bruce. Bruce looked pale, but he seemed to be in good spirit otherwise.

“Hello, my love,” smiled Dick.

“Hello,” Bruce smiled back, his eyes bright. “You’re here,” he said quietly, as if unbelieving of such a possibility.

“I am,” Dick bent down and planted a hand next to Bruce’s pillow to face him, careful not to jostle him, “and here to stay, if you want me to.” He trailed his fingertips along the side of Bruce’s face, feeling the light sting of the dark stubble.

“Yes...” Bruce’s eyes fluttered closed as he sighed shakily. “Yes.”

Bruce’s lips looked dry and slightly chapped, so Dick leaned in and wetted them with small kisses and licks. Bruce inhaled deeply, trying to turn and lift up his head to fully capture Dick’s mouth, but Dick stopped him with a hand on his cheek. “Shh, don’t move. Tell me what you want.”

“Just kiss me,” Bruce whispered against Dick’s lips.

Dick kissed him again, this time with all the tender yearning and passion. He breathed in the scent of Bruce’s skin, drowning in the sense of familiarity and security. Bruce kissed back to the degree he was able. He fumbled to reach for Dick’s hand with his own, and Dick met him halfway to lace their fingers together. Dick couldn’t bring himself to end the kiss, couldn’t stop tasting Bruce and locking their tongues as intimately as their tightly held hands. He wanted Bruce close by where he could touch him and make sure that he was tangible and alive. He wanted to promise him, not with words, that he wouldn’t leave again, and that he would live and love and fight alongside him, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart.

A thousand hopes and ideas whirled in Dick’s mind as the kiss still lingered, their mingled breaths soft and quiet. Perhaps Bruce could start training him when the doctors allowed him to sit up. Perhaps he could try being the Bat while Bruce was recuperating. Perhaps, when Bruce was well enough to be the Bat again, he could then wear blue to the Bat’s black, like their eyes and their hair, like day and night, like an unspoken secret only they understood.

But they could discuss those matters later. There would be plenty of time. For now, Dick was content enough with Bruce’s hand in his, their lips meeting. The future remained unknown, but this time, they weren’t alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends the story! Thank you everyone for supporting me through this fic. I had so much fun and I hope you did as well. I can’t wait to hear what you think of the entire work! *nervously eyeing the many other outlines lying in my folder*
> 
> Wishing you all a very happy new year!


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